100 Times the Snake Loved the Lioness
by LivesofFiction
Summary: Based on a 100 themes challenge, here are 100 one-shots of Draco and Hermione. Follow along as Malfoy & Granger navigate their relationship amidst trials, joys, triumphs, fears, and pain. Can love endure in light, darkness, grief, innocence, insanity, and misfortune (to name a few!)? Contains fluff & angst. Shamelessly blends the books and movies, Hogwarts & post-Hogwarts.
1. Theme 1: Introduction

**Theme One: Introduction**

When you're eleven years old, it is remarkably easy to mistake love for loathing.

Draco Malfoy had waited for years, anxiously anticipating the letter that would accept him into Hogwarts. Having grown up in the lap of luxury, wealth, and status, he had no doubt that he would be the most popular boy at the wizarding school. He planned on succeeding in every class, captaining a Quidditch team (he had been practising riding a broom since he was four years old), and surrounding himself with a group of like-minded, ambitious individuals.

It was his own little secret, but there was another reason he wanted to go to Hogwarts: friends. Though he would never have admitted it to anyone, he was a lonely kid. Malfoy Manor was glamourous and renowned, and Draco had been raised to take pride in his pure blood and his family history, had drunk in the stories of his father's exploits, but it sucked sometimes being the only child there.

He knew a couple children his age – sons of his father's old friends. But it wasn't the same.

He had heard his mother and father talking about the "blood traitor" Weasleys. His father spoke of them in disgust, his mother with a haughtiness that barely concealed her jealousy, that she a pure-blood should have struggled to be pregnant once, while the Weasley woman had seven children.

 _Seven_.

Draco couldn't imagine having that many siblings. He wondered if they had fun, if they laughed and played games and sneaked into each other's rooms to talk late into the night, if it was worth sharing your things and fighting, just to know that you had people who loved you.

No one had taught Draco how to make friends. He assumed that everyone would like him instantly – he was a Malfoy after all – but no one seemed to share his high sentiments of his lineage. Except Crabbe and Goyle, but they didn't count. He had known them since they were in diapers, and they weren't very bright.

He had tried befriending Potter, but it hadn't worked. Harry preferred that Weasley kid. He couldn't fathom why, especially with all the things his parents had told him about that family.

Even worse, that mudblood girl with the big teeth and bushy hair had chosen to be friends with Potter. They called him the Boy Who Lived, but he couldn't see what the big deal was. Draco was alive, wasn't he? And he felt certain that he was a much better wizard than that half-blood. Only the best wizards were placed in Slytherin. What could she possibly see in him?

Draco hated Potter. Hated him for being famous, for being such a big-shot on campus. Hated him for the easy way he made friends. And he hated her, for falling for all that. For being completely oblivious to the fact that he was far superior to Harry.

He had always been taught that nothing was more disgraceful than dirty blood, muggle parents. If she didn't want to elevate her status by befriending a pureblood, than so be it. He should have walked away and left it alone, stopped spending so much time talking to her, trying to catch her eye.

But Draco couldn't stop thinking about Hermione Granger.

He hadn't known that mudbloods could be so intelligent, or so attractive. She was a bit annoying, even the Weasel said so, but there was something inspiring in the way she absorbed knowledge and answered every question the teachers asked. She wasn't intimidated by the professors, by authority. She was determined and ambitious and resourceful. She was sure of herself, in a way that differed from every girl he had ever known. Her spirit was as wild as her hair. And, he had to admit, though it was a bit unkempt, it looked soft and adorable – big hair on such a little person. She had a nice little nose, that crinkled when she was vexed, and lovely brown eyes that reminded him of the woodlands bordering his home.

Draco didn't know why he thought about Hermione so much; why he stole glances at her in class; why deep down he wished he could ask her to come visit him at the manor, or that he could visit her at her home, see what it was like to grow up with muggles; why he imagined warm summers spent playing in fields and reading books under trees; why he sometimes walked close to her just so he could smell her coconut shampoo; why he said things he knew would make her angry, just because he wanted to see the fire light up in her eyes.

He tried everything he could to get her attention. He showed off and called her names. He joined the Slytherin Quidditch team, and had his father buy them all new brooms, to prove his status. He had tried to warn her that if the Chamber of Secrets opened, Mudbloods would be in danger. He even told his mother and father about her, hoping they would shed some light on his problem. Mother had given him a small smile; Father had sniffed and remarked on her filthy blood.

For six years, Draco tried to show Hermione that Ron and Harry could never deserve her. Had tried in vain to gain her interest. He just wanted her to see him. Really see him. If anyone could ever understand him, he knew Granger could.

Six years he struggled against his affection for her, which only seemed to increase as the months passed. He toiled under the pain of his unrequited feelings, praying that just once she would look his way. How he wished he could confide in her. If anyone could save him from his impending death, surely it was perfect prefect Granger.

But she wouldn't care if he died. No one would.

Whether it was Harry or Voldemort who killed him, no one would shed a tear at his demise. Maybe they would even think he deserved it. Maybe she wouldn't even notice he was gone.

Seventh year came, and Draco looked for Hermione everyday for a week. She was not on the train or eating at the Gryffindor table. She wasn't even in the library. He knew she must be with Potter, wherever he was. Far away from Hogwarts, from the mess he had caused.

But he couldn't bring himself to feel jealous. He was glad that she was away from the Carrows and the dementors. He hoped she was safe and warm. He hoped those two idiot friends of hers were taking good care of her.

And, more than anything, he wanted her to know, deep inside her heart, that he had never wanted any of this to happen.

He hoped he would have the chance to tell her someday.


	2. Theme 2: Love

**Quick note about the fic** : _The events in the collection will be a shameless blend of the books and films, Hogwarts and post-Hogwarts, and even various situations in which Hermione and Draco became a couple. For example, in this chapter when focusing on Hermione, I combine events as they occurred in the HBP book with the DH 2 movie and DH book. Each chapter is meant to stand on its own, and not be a continuous, congruous sequence._

* * *

 **Theme Two: Love**

Draco Malfoy realized he loved Hermione Granger the day she punched him in the face.

Whether or not he deserved it didn't matter. The minute her flesh connected with his, he knew he would love her forever.

He wondered vaguely if this meant he was a masochist, that he somehow enjoyed physical pain. He didn't think so. During his teenage years he would endure enough suffering to last him the rest of his life. His new found affection was deeper than that, went beyond the punch itself.

He had insulted Hagrid, and before he knew what was happening, she had smacked him in front of an awed crowd. The lioness of Gryffindor had reared her head. He had insulted one of her pack, and she was poised to defend. He had heard that Potter and Weasley were feuding with her, but she was still faithful to them, still protected them. The Slytherin girls he knew weren't like that. They were petty, gossipy, and two-faced. It spoke of her unfailing loyalty, her strength and confidence, her fearlessness. Everything that he didn't have; everything he was not.

Draco longed to be closer to her, to bask in her presence, absorb her strength into himself. He knew that she could make him a better person. If she would extend her friendship to him, show him what it was like to have someone care about him, defend him, then maybe he could do the same. He could be good, if someone would only be good to him.

So it was, one cold spring afternoon, that Hermione stole Draco's heart, when she almost broke his nose.

* * *

Hermione perhaps began to realize she had feelings other than loathing for Draco Malfoy in sixth year, when she noticed how ill he looked. He was paler than usual, the dark circles under his eyes looked like bruises on his porcelain skin, his face was drawn and tired. His normally tidy blond hair was messy, tumbling into his troubled grey eyes.

She had an inexpressible urge to walk over to the Slytherin table and wrap her arms around him. An urge she managed to suppress, and tried her hardest to forget completely.

Except Harry made forgetting difficult.

His insatiable obsession that Malfoy was planning something devious brought Draco ever into their discussions, into her thoughts. While she dismissed Harry's claims as unreasonable and irrational, she became increasingly worried about Draco's odd behaviour and what could cause him to appear so distraught. He had ceased in his routine bullying of the trio, and he disappeared for long periods at a time. Instead of rejoicing in this respite, she felt the absence acutely, as though she had lost an important piece of herself.

Unexpectedly, something had changed. New feelings had crept up on Hermione without warning, and she longed to talk to the young Death Eater, to hold him in her arms and comfort him. She jealously wished it had been she, and not Harry or Moaning Myrtle, who had discovered Draco crying in the bathroom.

Harry had almost killed Draco – and, worse yet, he still refused to surrender the Half-Blood Prince's Potions book. No matter what she said, he kept defending the "Prince," Ron and Ginny both taking his side. She was so disgusted with them she could hardly stand it. How could they be so apathetic and dismissive of this? Didn't they care that Draco had almost died? Did they think he deserved this pain, somehow justifying it because of all the trouble he had caused them?

 _But_ , she thought, _Draco really isn't that horrible, is he?_

The next day, when the rest of the school headed down to the Quidditch pitch, Hermione sneaked into the hospital wing. Madam Pomfrey seemed to be engaged in her office, where she was vehemently arguing with an unknown someone. This was a stroke of good fortune, as the matron was often displeased with visitors, and Hermione had no explanation for why she was there.

Other than Pansy, Draco had had no visitors. Crabbe and Goyle avoided the infirmary, as though just by entering its doors they would contract some malady or be jinxed. Draco was lying in the bed closest to the high windows. The afternoon sun filtered through the panes and illuminated his sleeping figure. The sunlight glinted in his blond hair, and gave him the appearance of being made of gold.

Cautiously, Hermione pulled a chair up next to his bed. She didn't know what she was doing. What had she expected when she had decided to come up here? What had she wanted to happen? She could discern the scars on his face that were slowly healing. Harry's curse must have been deep and caused significant damage if there were still scars a day later. Hermione knew Madam Pomfrey would be able to heal Malfoy's skin, but she doubted whether she could do anything for Draco's spirit.

Without really understanding what she was doing, Hermione leaned in and whispered in Draco's ear, "Please get better. I need you to get better." Softly, she brushed her lips against his cheek. Then she left as quietly as she had entered.

That was the last she saw of Malfoy for almost a year. While she was busy searching for any traces of the Half-Blood Prince in the library, Draco would fix the Vanishing Cabinet and help the Death Eaters into Hogwarts. He would disappear into the night; months later, she vanished into thin air with Harry and Ron.

But he was there, during one of the worst nights of her life. Of all the places the Snatchers could have taken them, they ended up at Malfoy Manor. She could see the reluctance on Draco's face when he was called upon to identify them. And as Bellatrix tortured her, she watched his face contort in sorrow and rage, but she knew he couldn't stop his aunt. Yet just seeing him after all those months, being in the same room as him, comforted her. His face kept her sane, gave her hope. She could endure whatever Bellatrix did to her. She would survive, the way he had.

Hermione realized she loved Draco when it was almost too late – in those crucial moments, when she had believed Harry was dead and Voldemort had won. Voldemort stood on the hallowed Hogwarts ground, and offered them a chance to change allegiances. The Malfoys had called to their son, and she had watched him. She could read the reluctance on his face. She wanted to scream his name, keep him there on their side.

But she didn't.

No one else called to him. No one pleaded with him to stay. No one wanted him. No one but her.

She should have called his name.

Draco moved towards the Death Eaters, to join his parents. She watched him as he and Narcissa walked away hand in hand, disapparating at the end of the destroyed bridge. How could he have just walked away, taking her heart with him? Where had he gone? How would he know to come back again? She would stand in that spot for hours, after Voldemort had died and the sun dawned on a new day. Ron and Harry returned to the castle, to tend to the living and the dead, but she stood there. Waiting. For him. For him to return.

"Hermione," Luna put a hand on her shoulder. "Why don't you come inside? I think you've given it enough time."

"Just a few more minutes, Luna."

The girl nodded knowingly. "Love makes watchers of us all."

Hermione smiled weakly. "I don't think –" But then she heard it, the unmistakeable _crack._ And he was there, striding towards the building alone. Before she could stop herself, Hermione was running towards him, hurtling herself through space and rubble. She threw herself into his arms. He buried his face in her neck, and held her close to him.

"Hermione, I –"

"I know. Just don't leave again."

"I won't."


	3. Theme 3: Light

_Thank you to everyone who has read, followed, and reviewed! I hope that you will continue to enjoy my one-shots and drabbles. This chapter is a tad shorter - just a snapshot of a day in the lives of Dramione. =)_

* * *

 **Theme Three: Light**

Hermione screamed.

Heart-wrenching cries that shattered the still and silent night. Fear, so much fear, suffocating her. She would be crushed under its weight. She needed to escape – or else to die. She couldn't bear anymore; she just wanted the horror to end.

"Hermione!"

That voice. She knew that voice, knew its every pitch and melody. It was panicked, afraid, calling out to her. Oh god, had they gotten him too? Her mouth opened to shape his name, the word on the tip of her tongue, but no sound emerged.

"Hermione, wake up!"

She opened her eyes.

Her body was covered in a cold-sweat, and her hair stuck to the side of her face. The sheets were entangled around her legs, making her feel trapped. Her teeth ached where she had ground them in her sleep. A dark shadow hovered over her, and she shrank back into her pillows, trying to make herself as small as possible, as she struggled to remember where she was.

" _Lumos_ ," the figure whispered, and a pale light pierced the darkness. Hermione blinked several times to help her eyes adjust. She glanced around the room, at the familiar furniture, the clothes in a pile on the floor, the stack of books and moving photographs on a bureau in the corner. "Did you have another nightmare?"

"Yes."

Draco laid back down, and set his wand on the bed between them. His brow was wrinkled in concern. "What was it this time?" he asked.

Hermione turned onto her side and gazed at the handsome face beside her. She reached out her hand and caressed his cheek, running her thumb back and forth over the smooth skin, reassuring herself of his warmth and presence. "Does it matter?"

"Yes. I want to know. It'll help – talking about it."

She didn't think that was true. She would rather just forget about the dream. Let it fade with each waking moment, until the sun's rays melted it away forever. She wanted to focus on right now, this very moment, on the beloved face mere inches from her. But Draco stared at her expectantly. "Bellatrix. It was about Bellatrix, and that night at the manor. She was torturing me." Though the night air was warm, Hermione shuddered. She wriggled closer and snuggled against his chest, as though she could merge with him into a single entity. He put his arms around her and kissed the top of her head.

"She's gone. No one will hurt you ever again."

His wand was trapped between their bodies, still casting its incandescent glow. The light seemed to radiate from deep within him, engulfing her in its brilliance. Promising safety and comfort.

"I know," Hermione whispered. She contemplated him, the sleep-tousled hair, the parted lips, the scars the War had left – the jagged lines of his face, and the memories that haunted him, playing beneath the depths of those beautiful pewter eyes.

Then she kissed him.

A white heat seemed to flood her whole being, obliterating the final traces of her nightmare. She relished his taste, his touch, his scent, his breath on her skin. "I love you, Hermione," he murmured when they parted, his voice husky.

"I love you, Draco."

"If you don't want to go back to sleep, I could stay up with you." He knew all about nightmares that made it impossible to rest, plaguing the mind and heart, whittling away the hours too terrified to shut his eyes, knowing what would greet him in his dreams.

"It's alright. Let's go to sleep. You can turn out the light." He extinguished his wand and wrapped his arms more tightly around her, enclosing her in a protective embrace. Hermione closed her eyes and listened to the steady rhythm of his breathing. The _thump, thump_ of his heart like a promise for a lifetime.

Hermione didn't need wands or blue-bell flames, the sun or the moon, to give her light. She had all the light she needed here, in Draco. The splendour of his enduring love, the radiance of his beautiful spirit, the warmth of his arms and his passion, dispelled the darkness. He was her guiding star, leading her out of the shadows. The sun on her gloomiest days, sustaining life and helping her grow. A beacon of love and healing. Hope. Life.


	4. Theme 4: Dark

_This one is a bit different - a bit more fun. And a lighter tone for a theme usually associated with doom and gloom. Maybe my favourite so far. =)_

* * *

 **Theme Four: Dark**

A mischievous, unnamed third year took it upon himself to prank the sixth year prefects on the last day of classes. While some pranksters may have felt certain areas and situations were indisputably off-limits, and should never be tampered with, this particular trickster had no such scruples, and therefore decided the perfect place to attack was the prefects' bathroom on the fifth floor. A symbol, he was sure, of their status, with the added benefit of involving unmentionable bodily functions and occasional nudity.

The opening of Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes earlier that year afforded him a wide assortment of products to meet his every pranking need. Though all Weasley merchandise had been banned by Filch, and all in-coming mail was being monitored, Fred and George had devised methods for camouflaging packages so they could reach students' hands.

He was now in possession of several such items, including Cupid Crystals – a special order concoction which, unlike other WonderWitch potions that caused the drinker to become infatuated with the giver, caused the recipient to briefly experience all-consuming, passionate, grossly romantic impulses towards the first person they laid eyes on. His plan was to unleash the crystals in the prefect bathroom and enjoy the ensuing confusion and chaos.

He bided his time, waiting, watching, until late evening when a handful of prefects had entered the bathroom to get ready for bed: the redhead and his brunette friend from Gryffindor, the female prefect from Ravenclaw, and the two Slytherin prefects – the pug-faced gossip and that snob Malfoy. He sneaked quietly past the statue of Boris the Bewildered, to the fourth door, and whispered the password he had heard them use (that Slytherin girl had apparently never learned the art of whispering).

He stole a quick peek inside (wow, their bathroom was beautiful! A person could swim in that tub!). The three girls were at the sinks, brushing their teeth and doing whatever else it was girls did to get ready for bed. They were engaged in some kind of fierce argument about something that didn't interest him. He assumed the two guys were in the stalls, since he couldn't see either of them. He would have liked for at least one of them to have been in the tub – _that_ would have been hilarious – but it was now or never.

The jokester pulled the cork off the bottle with his teeth, and lobbed it into the bathroom. It landed on the stone floor with a crash and shattered into a hundred pieces. The sudden noise startled everyone in the bathroom, and he quickly ducked his head out.

A substance resembling black fog instantly filled the room. But it had no density and soon plunged the bathroom into impenetrable darkness.

Pansy Parkinson screamed.

"It's Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder!" Ron yelled, recognizing his brothers' handiwork. He stumbled out of a stall and tried to feel his way towards the sinks, where he knew Hermione to be.

"We should wait until it wears off," she calmly suggested, "before someone gets hurt. Nobody move," she added, as Ron crashed into the side of the nearest sink and swore loudly.

"No way. C'mon. Let's get out of here." Ron reached out in the direction her voice had come and grabbed a thin wrist. With more swearing and stubbing of toes, Ron finally guided the girl to the door. It opened and closed behind the pair, but not even the dim light from the corridor could permeate the darkness.

"I hate the dark," Pansy wailed. An old childhood fear of hers that she had never completely shaken. She, like Ron, felt that she could not stand another minute in the pitch-black bathroom, and began to search for the door.

"There's nothing wrong with darkness," Draco drawled, gliding through the dark as easily as if it were the hallways of Malfoy Manor. Snakes do not rely on their sense of sight. The door opened again. There were only two prefects left in the bathroom. "Now, that we're alone," he murmured slyly, "let me show you how much fun the dark can be."

He seized the girl and kissed her. Led only by his sense of touch, he embraced her, ran his thin fingers over her waist, her hips. She returned the kiss with passion, and intensified it. She tasted like spearmint toothpaste and the feathered ends of quills.

As they snogged with great zeal, her hands were in his hair, clawing at his back, pulling him near. _God,_ he thought, _she's an amazing kisser. Why hasn't she ever kissed me like this before?_ The intensity of their embrace dulled his brain, and Draco barely registered that "Pansy" smelled better than usual. Like fresh laundered pyjamas, spring flowers, and coconut. And he didn't remember her hair being in a high ponytail when they had entered the bathroom. Her hair felt softer, less sleek – more bushy.

The darkness faded, but Draco didn't notice. His eyes were closed, and he was a little too busy to notice his surroundings.

" _Well,_ " the one word was stretched into two syllables. "What do we have here?" Draco knew that whiny, high-pitched voice. Myrtle. The girl in his arms pulled away from him. He reluctantly opened his eyes, and gave a start to see not Pansy but Hermione Granger in front of him, attempting to fix her hair back into a taut ponytail.

Draco gave a surprised cough. For once, he had no idea what to say. He couldn't even think of a smart-ass retort. He blinked several times, as though this would cause Hermione to morph into Pansy, and attempted to cover his speechlessness by straightening his robes.

Moaning Myrtle giggled. "My, my," she clucked, and disappeared through the nearest toilet.

"Well, Granger, that was –"

"Amazing?" she smirked at him expectantly.

"What? No. I've had, uh, well I think I've had..."

"Better?" Hermione's smile widened, and unexpectedly she leaned in and kissed him, leaving him confused and breathless. "Maybe we just need more practice. We'll have to do this again sometime." She retrieved her toothpaste and toothbrush, and gave him a small wave. "And not in a toilet."

With a swish of her long ponytail, Hermione left.

"Is it gone?" Ron asked, when she had emerged, Padma still at his side. She was both glowering and blushing - clearly she was still holding onto her Yule Ball grudge - and Ron's ears were a dark shade of red.

"Yes. I told you it was easier to wait. I wonder where it came from," she added thoughtfully. She glanced around the deserted corridor, but she did not see the perplexed prankster huddled behind a statue. "Come on. Let's go back to the common room."

The third year didn't know how he could have made such a mistake. Ron had barged out of the bathroom, dragging along Padma Patil, and yelling about Peruvians and cursing his brothers. This was not the love-fest he had been anticipating. Pansy had stumbled out shortly after, complaining about darkness and wondering how someone was supposed to pee when they couldn't see an inch in front of their face. He realized then he had grabbed the wrong bottle from his trunk. Both his Peruvian Instant Darkness and Cupid Crystals had been disguised as cough potions – he should have checked the labelling.

Draco finally emerged from the bathroom, looking dishevelled, and wearing an odd lopsided grin. "What happened?" Pansy demanded, inspecting him shrewdly.

"Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder. Best. Invention. Ever."


	5. Halloween Special

_In honor of Halloween today, I thought I would deviate from my 100 Themes challenge to bring you this Dramione Halloween special. Just a little bit of fluff, having fun with a few muggle traditions from North America. (Although North American Halloween traditions have only really become big in the UK in the last several years, let's suspend time, and say that they were popular in England when Hermione & Draco were twenty-somethings). I hope you enjoy! Thanks to everyone who has read, followed, faved, and reviewed!_

* * *

 **Halloween**

"Is this really what muggles do on Halloween?" Draco asked, as he struggled to pull the shirt Hermione had given him over his head.

"Well, American muggles really, but my cousin Margaret - she doesn't know I'm a witch, you know - is really excited about this party. She says they're all wearing costumes."

"I feel ridiculous." He spread his arms wide in defeat, his head trapped somewhere inside the cloth. Hermione chuckled, adjusted his costume, and added the final accessories.

"I think you look very handsome."

Draco blushed, but hid it well. "Who am I supposed to be again?"

"You're Peter Pan - the Boy Who Never Grew Up. And I'm Wendy Darling," she tossed her head to the side and shot him a winning smile. "I thought it would be sweet."

"You realize I have no idea who we are."

"I told you - we're characters from a play by J.M. Barrie. A popular muggle playwright. I gave you my copy of the novelized _Peter Pan_ a week ago."

"I, er, haven't had time to read it... I never even read my Hogwarts textbooks the entire way through. You can't really expect me to read a book by some muggle I've never heard of?"

She shot him a menacing look, which was severely weakened by the blue ribbon in her hair and girlish dress. She had read a great deal of muggle literature, and thought non-magical authors just as capable and accomplished - and possibly even more imaginative - than wizard writers. "Just read it. I think you'll like it." But Draco wasn't listening anymore. He was considering himself in a mirror and attempting to pull his shirt down as far as possible, so it would cover certain, ahem, "areas."

"How am I supposed to feel manly wearing these tights? You got the better end of this deal: you look adorable! I look like an overgrown child." Hermione raised an eyebrow, and rearranged the leaves on his tunic.

"You _are_ an overgrown child."

"Ha-ha."

"Do you know, in America, they have 'trick or treat'? Kids wear costumes and knock on doors, and people give them candy - that's the treat. If you don't get a treat, you play a trick. I should say a costume party is much better than that."

"Sounds like a good way to promote avarice and gluttony, if you ask me. Their children must be little monsters."

Hermione chuckled. "Says the boy whose father bought his way into the Slytherin Quidditch Team." Hermione threw her hands in the air, and in her best imitation of Draco's voice whined, "'My father will hear about this.'"

"Hey, I was a great Seeker."

"Yes, you were." Hermione smiled and kissed his cheek. "Now stop fussing. You look fine. Let's go, or we'll be late."

The couple apparated a block from Margaret's house. Hermione figured it would be safe to do so, since there were so many people out that night. However, she reminded Draco that if anyone happened to ask them how they had arrived at the party, he was to tell them they had taken the tube.

"The tube? Is it anything like the sensation of apparating - as though you're being sucked through a tube?"

Hermione rolled her eyes. Had Draco never paid any attention in Muggle Studies? Did she have to teach him everything? "No. The tube is the London Underground, as in an underground train."

"Oh."

Hermione linked her arm through Draco's and rested her hand on his bicep. "Are you nervous?"

"Extremely."

She smiled. "My cousin Margaret can be quite ... gregarious. There will probably be a lot of people at the party. And she'll probably come straight at you." Draco gulped and considered turning on his heel and running home. A muggle party. He never, in a million years, thought that he would attend one. But this was important to his girlfriend, so he would do his best to survive it.

Margaret Granger shared a large, three-bedroom townhouse with her boyfriend and two closest friends. It was decorated for Halloween, with fake tombstones and monsters scattered around the yard, and paper ghosts tangled in a bush. As they walked to the front door, Draco noticed a straw effigy of a man hanging from a post near the house.

"Another muggle Halloween tradition?"

"No, that's Guy Fawkes."

" _Who_?"

"Nevermind." Hermione knocked on the door. A rosy, pleasantly-plump girl with short brown hair, cut into a stylish bob, opened the door. She was wearing a short black dress trimmed in red lace, fish-net stockings, spiked high heeled boots, and a small red and black striped pointed hat on the side of her head. Her mouth spread into such a wide smile that it seemed her face would break.

"Mi-Mi!" She screamed and threw her arms around her cousin.

"Hello, Peggy!"

"It's so good to see you! And," Margaret pulled back and sized Draco up, from head to toe, " _this_ must be your boyfriend. Drake was it?"

"Draco."

"I'm Margaret - Hermione's _favourite_ cousin. You can call me Peggy," she said, as she pulled them inside. The music pulsating through the house seemed to shake its very foundations, and every room seemed to be over-flowing with sweaty people in costumes. "God, Hermione," she whispered loudly, clutching her cousin's arm. "You didn't tell me he was _so yummy._ " Draco could see Hermione blushing. "You better keep an eye on him, or some of these girls will be all over him. Like Rachel. You remember her? She was in your year, before you transferred schools."

Hermione's face darkened as she looked across the room at a slim, blond girl dressed as a slutty nurse. "Yeah, I remember her."

"She's _horrid,_ but I had to invite her of course, or we'd have _draaaama._ Here, have a drink." She shoved orange plastic cups decorated with little bats in Hermione's and Draco's hands. She scrutinized her cousin. "What are you supposed to be?"

"We're Peter Pan and Wendy Darling. I thought it was obvious."

"I _should_ have known," Peggy chortled. "You're such a bookworm, but you _do_ look absolutely darling! I'm jealous."

"What's your costume?" Draco asked, making an effort to be part of this conversation.

Peggy snorted. "Oh, you're hilarious. You're joking, right?" She looked from his confused face to Hermione, who was trying to suppress a laugh, and back at him. "Why, I'm a witch of course. A _sexy_ witch. You'd best beware, handsome, or I might cast a spell on you. God, don't tell Mark I said that, alright? Oh look, Henry has just arrived. We'll talk later. Kisses. Henry, darling!"

"Not the most accurate costume," Hermione grumbled, feeling slighted about her own modest homemade costumes. "She didn't even put any effort into it."

"I think it's great," Draco pulled her close and murmured in her hair. "Maybe we should get one for you."

"You would see Professor McGonagall in that outfit before you would ever catch me wearing it."

"Thanks for that mental image," he laughed. He took a drink from his cup. "This is _amazing,_ what is it?" Hermione sniffed the crimson liquid and took a sip.

"It's punch - but it's definitely been spiked. I suppose it's supposed to resemble blood."

"It's bloody amazing."

Hermione grinned. For someone who had been raised to hate anything associated with muggles - including "mudbloods" - Draco sure was enjoying himself. "Just don't drink too much, okay?"

"Alright," Draco hiccoughed, refilling his cup from the glass bowl, in which edible fingers floated. His cheeks were already bright pink.

"I'm going to go say 'hello' to Peggy's roommates. Please don't go anywhere, okay?"

"Mmhmm."

Hermione pushed her way through the crowd towards two girls huddled together. They were dressed as what appeared to be a vampire and the Queen of Hearts. They greeted her exuberantly, and insisted on introducing her to a dozen people. She glanced back quickly at Draco, and saw that a couple zombies had engaged him in conversation. _He'll be alright,_ she thought, and followed her cousin's friends.

An hour and a hundred introductions later, Hermione was finally able to separate herself from Peggy's roommates and went to find Draco. He was not where she had left him. He was sitting on a sofa chattering excitedly, surrounded by a group of people who were in hysterics. His face was flushed, as he advised people on their costumes. "I've got to tell you, Jack, that ghost costume is pretty week. I personally know some ghosts, and they're nothing like that. You people find ghosts scary, but let me tell you, I've seen some frightening things. I was once attacked by a hippogriff, and I saw a man drinking the blood of a unicorn. Ugh! I'll never get that one out of my head. Gross. But Lydia, love, you got that fairy costume down. They're very vain little creatures. We used to study them in class. These muggle parties are awesome! If I'd known, I would have come to one years ago!"

"Who is this guy?" one of the zombies asked, laughing so hard he nearly fell off his chair.

"Hermione!" Draco cheered, as he saw her approaching. He stood abruptly, spilling punch on himself. "Oh bugger. This is my girlfriend! Isn't she beautiful? And she's smart too - Head Girl! Hermione, tell them about that Slughorn party you attended once."

"Draco, dear," she said gently, tugging him away from the amused guests. "Why don't we dance?"

"Sure!"

"Okay, why don't we just leave that here?" she asserted, taking his cup and setting it on the coffee table. "I think you've had enough."

Despite being intoxicated, Draco was still an incredible dancer. He stepped and swayed, grooved and shimmied. Hermione tried to match his movements, and soon she was having so much fun that she forgot how embarrassed she had felt earlier. The energy around them was electric, and she couldn't remember a time when she had had so much fun. It was like the Yule Ball, except everyone looked bizarre not fancy, and she wouldn't end the night crying on the marble staircase. She was dancing with the man she loved - and he was happier than she had ever seen him.

Finally, the DJ eased up on the fast-tempo music, and put on a love ballad with a slower tempo. Draco bowed to Hermione, and took her in his arms. As the whirled around in a circle, he said, "Thank you."

"For what?"

"For bringing me to the party."

"You're having fun?"

"Yes. More than I thought I would. You're so good for me, you know? Before I knew you, I never had this much fun. I never just let loose and enjoyed myself. And I never tried new things. But you push me and challenge me. I love you."

"I love you too."

"But next Halloween, I get to choose the costumes, deal?"

"Will I end up dressed like Peggy?"

"Only if the costume is worthy of your beauty and integrity."

Hermione smiled. Draco could be so corny sometimes; she wondered if it was a Malfoy trait. "Okay, it's a deal."


	6. Theme 5: Seeking Solace

**Theme Five: Seeking Solace**

Draco was eating breakfast alone in the dining room of Malfoy Manor when the owl arrived. It dropped a note, scribbled on a scrap of an old poster, into his bowl of lukewarm porridge. He extracted the soggy piece of parchment and cleaned it with his wand. He was exceedingly curious. Who, he wondered, would send a message this early in the morning, why had the writer not come in person, and why on earth would they use an owl instead of an alternate means of communication?

There was only one line, in a slanted and messy scrawl:

 _Come to my place as soon as possible. ~ H_

Worry lines wrinkled Draco's high forehead. That sounded pretty urgent. What had happened? Why hadn't Hermione come herself? Was she hurt? Obviously she had been well enough to take the time to write a note, and she was at home – not at St Mungo's or lying in a ditch somewhere – but what could be so serious that he needed to come right away?

A million situations flashed through his mind at once. None of them good. He rolled up his sleeve to check where the Dark Mark had once branded his arm. It had faded long ago, but sometimes, in the dead of night, when he awoke in fear, he would check to see if it had returned, if Voldemort was returning to claim him. Hermione teased him sometimes for being paranoid, but he could see the memories that haunted her, the way she absently rubbed at the scars Bellatrix had given her, when she thought he wasn't looking. Their fear was a chronic disease they would never heal from. There would always be that slimmer of doubt that He Who Must Not Be Named would return. Even when they were together, and happy, the fear was always there in the background, reminding them of what had happened, what could have happened, everything they had lost. Reminding them always of mortality, that they were always just one step away from losing each other.

"What is it, Draco?" Narcissa asked, sitting down at the table to eat her own breakfast.

He glanced at his mother. The War had changed her too: given her shadows that never disappeared from under her eyes, creases around her mouth, silver hairs entangled among her golden tresses.

He knew how much she worried about him, hovering the way she had when he was a little boy, and was frightened he would hurt himself. Keeping her ever vigilant watch. At night, when he pretended to be asleep, he could hear her creep down the hallway and open his bedroom door. And sometimes during the day, she would become still and quiet when they were together and simply gaze at him, memorizing every detail of his face. Her long fingers would brush the hair from his forehead, or caress his cheek.

"It's nothing to worry about, Mother. Just a note from Hermione."

"Is she alright?"

"Yes, she is," he replied, hoping it was true. He stood and put a pale hand on his mother's shoulder. She placed her own over it, as though to keep him there. "But I'm afraid I shall have to cancel our dinner plans. I need to go see her." Narcissa nodded.

"I understand."

"I don't know how long I shall be gone."

"Just promise me you'll stay safe, and return to me this evening."

He kissed the crown of her head. "I will, Mother."

Narcissa moved her son's hand from her shoulder to her mouth, pressing her lips to his knuckles. "I love you, my son."

"I know."

Draco needed to go outside the manor grounds, just on the other side of the gate, before he could Apparate. With a great ripping sound, the dismal woodlands vanished, and he reappeared in a narrow alleyway in London. He stepped out from behind a dumpster, and a startled rat scurried across his path.

He didn't like appearing in this spot – it was dirty, disgusting, and shady – but Hermione's apartment building was right along a busy street, her flat on the seventh floor. It was the closest he could get without arousing suspicion. He couldn't understand why she felt she had to live so close to the Ministry when she could just Apparate to work everyday. He supposed it had something to do with her muggle raising. Personally, he would have hated living in the city.

"Ah, good morning, Draco," a pudgy woman with loose black curls greeted him, as she stepped out of the elevator into the lobby. "Going up to see Hermione, are yeh?"

"Good morning, Mrs Horton. Yes, I am."

"She'll be please to see yeh. Could hear her crying from all the way down the hall."

"Have you seen her? Is she alright?"

"Couldn't tell yeh. She seems awful upset about summat. At first, I thought it must be about you. Take care, lad."

"Thanks, ma'am. You as well." Draco stepped into the elevator and pushed the 7 button. The old elevator creaked and groaned under his weight as it lurched upward. He would never get used to the sensation. Why weren't muggle lifts as smooth as wizard ones? Or as fast?

As soon as the lift doors opened, he could hear the sound of sobbing. He hurried to 705 and pounded on the door. "Hermione, it's me." The door flew open seconds later, as though she had been waiting near it.

Hermione was a mess. Her face was red and blotchy, her eyes puffy. Her cheeks were slick and wet with the tears raining from her eyes, and the drops of snot that dripped from her nose down her chin. She was still wearing her pyjamas. "D-Draco," she hiccoughed.

Draco grabbed her in a hug, enveloping her in his arms. She buried her face in his shoulder and wept, wrenching sobs that shook her whole body. She clutched the back of his shirt, anchoring herself to him. A wet patch appeared on the fabric she pressed her face to. He silently held her for several minutes, letting her cry.

Finally she broke away, wiped her eyes, and led him into her apartment. There was a lump on the living room floor covered in a tattered Gryffindor blanket. "C-Crookshanks d-died," she explained, dissolving into tears once more. Draco sat her down on the sofa, and rubbed her back as she spoke. "I found him t-this m-morning, c-curled up in a little b-b-ball. I think he d-died in his s-sleep. His h-heart just st-stopped."

"I so sorry, love."

"H-he was old when I g-got him, b-but I just l-loved him s-so much. Like he was a p-person. He was p-part of my family." Hermione accepted the tissue Malfoy offered her and blew her nose. "You probably think I'm being silly, grieving so much for a cat. But he was my friend...I didn't want to be alone."

Draco held her chin in his hand and lifted her head so she could look into his eyes. "I don't think you're silly. Smuggling a baby dragon out of Hogwarts – now that was silly." Hermione chuckled. "Being sad that something you loved is gone, that's not silly."

"I knew you'd understand."

And he did. Though the Malfoys could have afforded it (and goodness knows they had the space), his parents had never allowed Draco to have a pet. The closest thing he had ever had to a pet was Dobby the house elf, but that didn't count. Especially since he liked the Potter kid more than he had ever liked Draco. He was forced to be loyal.

But Draco could understand the need for companionship, for something that would love you no matter how hard things got or how horrible you could be. He could understand how easy it would be for a person to become attached to a little ball of fur – especially a person with a heart as compassionate as Hermione's. He could understand cherishing something as innocent and trusting as a child, the way an animal depended on you and gave you a sense of purpose, returning your care a hundred fold with its unconditional love and adoration - as though you were the most important person on the planet. He had witnessed as much in Crookshanks, in the protective way he used to rub against Hermione's legs and glare at Draco.

Crookshanks also represented a better time, a joyful and golden childhood before the war against Voldemort, when Hermione had been happy at Hogwarts. A little piece of her life before the Dark Lord's return to power, before the death and destruction of everything she had held dear. But now that little piece had died.

Crookshanks was not just some cat.

He had been there for Hermione when no one else was, when her friends shunned and argued with her. Her most faithful friend. He never hurt her the way people did.

They sat in silence for a while, until Draco finally said, "Hermione, we need to do something with the body."

"I know," she sniffled, "but once I do, that means he really is gone."

"I think as long as you love someone, they're never really gone. I have an idea." Draco knelt to the floor and scooped up the furry body. "C'mon." He reached for Hermione's hand and togethered they apparated to a meadow full of bright flowers and warm sunshine.

"It's a beautiful spot," Hermione acknowledged, "but I can't bury him, Draco. I can't. I don't want him in the ground. It doesn't feel right."

"We could cremate him then, and scatter the ashes among the flowers," he gestured at the fields rolling out before them. "From dust to dust, and all that."

"Alright," Hermione agreed, "but you'll have to do it. I don't think I can." Draco gently laid Crookshanks in the soft grass, extracted his wand from inside his jacket pocket, and waved it wordlessly. Bright red flames consumed the feline corpse, smoke billowing into the blue sky.

Silent tears slipped down Hermione's cheeks, and she grasped Draco's hand tightly, as though it was a lifeline, keeping her from drifting away into a sea of sorrow.

The flames faded and died; Draco bent down and retrieved something from among the ashes. It was a crystal heart. He handed it to Hermione. "My mother taught me how to transfigure cinders into glass," he said sadly, thinking of a distant memory of loss and his mother's soothing voice, an occasion that had merited such a spell. Maybe, one day, he would tell Hermione. "This way you'll always have a piece of someone you love. Crookshanks is never really gone, you'll always have a part of him with you."

Hermione clutched the heart to her chest, and closed her eyes. Then she withdrew her own wand, levitated Crookshanks' ashes, and flicked her wrist, letting them drift down to the ground and settle like fairy dust.

"Thank you, Draco."

"You're welcome. Would you like to go home?"

"Let's stay for a while, and just be together."

"Alright."

The couple laid down on the grass. She cuddled up against him, one of his arms behind his head, the other under her shoulders. For hours they rested there together – alone except for the birds that fluttered overhead. They watched the clouds pass by, the cool breeze kissing their skin and bringing them the sweet scent of wildflowers and distant forests. They enjoyed simply being alive.

Hermione smiled as she gazed at Draco's sun-burnt face. Perhaps, she thought, the right person wasn't the boy she spent countless nights crying over, or the boy who often made her cry. Her true love was the man who would wipe the tears from her eyes.


	7. Theme 6: Break Away

_Near the end, there is a reference to a scene that was cut from the Deathly Hallows Part 2 film, and does not exist in the book (this is, Draco breaking rank). I really wish they had kept the scene, because I think it says a lot about Draco's character. This Dramione chapter is different because Hermione appears by name only. There are two kinds of "breaking away" occurring: one being physical (or at least a mention of) and the other philosophical. Anyway, I hope you enjoy. =)_

* * *

 **Theme Six: Break Away**

"No, I will not stand for it. I forbid it," Lucius Malfoy thundered. He paced back and forth between his wife Narcissa, who sat stiffly in a chair, her hands folded neatly in her lap, and his son Draco, who stood rigidly in front of the fireplace, his arm resting on the mantle.

"I wasn't asking your permission, Father."

"I will not allow my son to marry a muggle-born! Yes, I'll admit, she has grown to be quite pretty, so I allowed you to indulge your desires and make her your girlfriend. But if I had known you actually had _feelings_ for the girl, that you intended on _marrying_ her, I would have ended it."

"I love her."

" _Love_ ," Lucius sneered. "You make yourself stop loving her. You can't actually tell me you seriously want to make a muggle's daughter your wife. You are a pure-blood, the last of a great wizarding family. I will _not_ have you sully yourself with some filthy little _mudblood_ ," he spat the term in disgust, as though it tasted foul in his mouth. "I raised you better than that, raised you to understand the differences in and importance of bloodlines."

"And look where that got us!" Draco shouted. Lucius stopped walking abruptly and stared at his son; even Narcissa was shocked by his sudden outburst. "Your prejudices nearly killed all of us! Serving a man who didn't care whether we lived or died, actually _hoped_ I would die in my mission to kill Professor Dumbledore so that he could punish you. Humiliated you in your own house, took your wand. I was _chosen_ to be a Death Eater, I had no power to decide for myself, because of _your stupid_ blood ideologies."

"Draco, you know I never –"

"It all happened because of you. Since I was a child, you have filled me with your narrow-minded ideas. You have never let me make my own choices. You made me into _you._ I don't want to be you. I want to figure out what I believe, who I am, for myself. Hermione lets me do that. When I'm with her, I feel more like myself than I ever have. She challenges me and teaches me, inspires me to be a better person. I love her. Maybe once I scorned her because of her bloodline, but not anymore. She is the greatest witch I have ever known, and the best friend I have ever had. I _am_ going to marry her." Draco's face was flushed in anger and determination, his hands balled into fists. "I had hoped for your blessing, but I do not require it. I just wanted to inform you of my plans to propose, because I have never kept secrets from you, even after everything, as you have kept them from me."

"Draco," Narcissa's voice was soft. "My child."

"I'm sorry, Mother," Draco's eyes were pained but resolved. "I love you both dearly, but I refuse to subscribe to your ideologies." He stormed from the room. The front door slammed, and they knew that he had apparted just outside the gate.

Lucius assumed Draco's place by the fire. "What do we do, Narcissa?"

"We give him our blessing."

Lucius stared at his wife. "How can you say that?"

"His ideas are not yours, Lucius," she said, gliding from her chair to where he stood. She took his face in her hands. Time and hardship had aged him, but he was still the man she had fallen in love with all those years ago. Years that she had remained always by his side. "We have been through too much. He is our only son. Let him marry for love."

Lucius sighed. "Why couldn't he have fallen in love with a pureblood Slytherin girl?"

"Would you have been happy then, when you see how Miss Granger loves him, how she cares for him and makes him happy, motivates him to be the decent young man I always prayed he would become? Do you think Pansy could have done that? Could she have looked after our son?"

Lucius grunted.

"He will marry her whether you accept his decision or not. My love, do not punish him for making his own choice for the first time in his life. He has cast aside our ideals, do not allow him to break away from us as well. I could not endure losing him. And I know you could not either."

"I know."

Narcissa smiled, and wrapped her arms around her husband's waist. "Then tell him. We will welcome the muggle-born as one of our own." She stood on tiptoe and kissed his forehead. "Despite what you may believe, I did not marry you for your blood, Lucius Malfoy. I loved you, and I would have loved you had your blood been as black and dirty as coal."

 _ **XXXXX**_

That evening after dinner, when Draco had returned, Lucius called his son into the parlour and had him sit down. Draco obeyed rather reluctantly. Lucius moved his own chair in front of the boy and pressed the tips of his fingers together. He cleared his throat and began, "Draco, I want you to know that I do these things out of concern for you, even when it may not seem like it." Lucius sighed. "I have made a lot of mistakes, and I have done much wrong by you, but please believe my intentions were good and I would never willingly harm you."

He looked at Draco hopefully, but his white face was an impassive mask.

"Son, I care about you, and I desire your happiness. I just need to be sure this is what you _really_ want." In his heart of hearts, Lucius knew this to be true. Saw his life laid out before him, from the moment he had held his newborn son in his arms, and knew he would have laid down his life to keep his son safe. But had he held on too tightly, thus pushing his son away? Was the chasm between them too wide to ever be bridged again?

Draco considered his father's words for a moment, and then asked, "Father, do you remember the final battle against Voldemort, when we believed Potter to be dead? I stood among my classmates, and you called me to join you, and I did."

Lucius offered a small smile. "I remember." Yes, his good and obedient boy.

"But you must also remember my hesitation, my reluctance. When Potter revealed he lived, I broke away from the ranks of the Death Eaters, and I threw him my wand. I wanted him to defeat the Dark Lord."

Lucius nodded, his mind struggling between the disapproval he had felt when Draco had helped Potter – the boy who had caused them so much trouble, who had hurt his son at Hogwarts in ways he would never know – and pride at his son's courage and goodness.

"Do you know what prompted me to do that?"

"A sudden impulse to see the War end, I suppose."

"Hermione. I saw her grief-stricken face on the other side, the pain in her eyes when she believed all hope was gone and her best friend dead, and I thought of all she had suffered – all the suffering _I_ had caused her – this poor muggle-born child, who had known nothing of the Dark Lord before Hogwarts, and I suddenly felt that I must do something. I did not want to cause anymore pain, if it was within my power to stop it. She made me want to be good. She makes me want to be better. I hope you can understand, Father."

Lucius thought of Narcissa, of the years they had spent building their life together, of her faithfulness through it all. He smiled. "I do, son."

"Then you will bless my marriage to Hermione?"

Lucius looked into his son's eyes – his eyes mirrored back at him, yet so different, so haunted at such a young age – and felt a sudden surge of guilt. He had failed as a father to protect his son, but he would not fail him now. "I will."

Then, in a rare moment of affection, Draco hugged his father – and Lucius Malfoy returned it.


	8. Theme 7: Heaven

_This chapter is a continuation of the last one (Theme 6: Break Away - aka, Draco informing his parents he plans to propose to Hermione). I warn you, being a proposal scene, the end of this chapter is unbelievably corny. But I think the sentimentality fits well with the situation, the setting, and the conversation Draco and Hermione are having. =) Thank you for reading. I would be super appreciative if you left a review!_

* * *

 **Theme Seven: Heaven**

Even though they spent all of their free time together, Hermione insisted that they did not go on enough "proper dates." Draco had come to understand that this meant they were not seen together in public enough, engaged in usual couple activities. She enjoyed the stuff of typical muggle dates – romantic dinners and movies, strolling hand in hand through gardens and galleries, afternoons in art museums, and evenings spent attending theatre productions or carnivals. Draco preferred the times they spent practising magic or exploring new destinations, walking arm-in-arm down Diagon Alley, or drinking and laughing, and – his absolute favourite – snogging in a dark corner of a wizard pub.

Draco wanted his proposal to Hermione to be absolutely perfect. He decided in order to do this, he should focus on a few of her favourite activities, and hopefully end the night with an affirmative answer and a good deal of snogging. He planned the date two weeks in advance, and reminded her everyday of the preceding week of their upcoming plans on Friday. She laughed and dismissed his reminders with a wave of her hand, but he noticed that her excitement did not seem to equal his. In fact, she seemed rather distracted.

The evening finally arrived, and Draco was beside himself with anticipation. He picked Hermione up at her London flat. She was even more beautiful than the eve of the Yule Ball of their fourth year. Her hair was slicked back in a half-up do, with a few stray strands that curled around her face, giving her the appearance of a goddess just awoken from sleep. She wore dangling silver earrings, to match the silver bracelet that had been a birthday present from him. Her lipstick was a dark shade of red – the colour, he thought, of passion. And she wore an emerald green dress – his favourite colour – that clung to every curve of her waist, but fell softly around her hips and legs. It swished when she walked, reminding him of a gently rippling river. She smiled her toothy grin – and he noticed, not for the first time, that her teeth were no longer too big for her mouth, though he couldn't remember when that had happened.

God, she was beautiful.

They started with dinner at a swanky restaurant in London's West End. It was a popular spot for wizards and muggles alike, with its wide selection of wines and five star rating. There was a special section for wizards, in the back "VIP" area of the restaurant, which included candles floating over the tables and music from self-playing instruments. Draco knew it was Hermione's favourite place – perhaps because the kitchens were manned by wizards and not enslaved house elves – but she couldn't afford to eat there regularly. They ate vegetable ratatouille and roast lamb in an apricot-citrus sauce, washed down with a ₤55 bottle of Pinot Noir.

"Would you like to share a pudding?" Draco suggested. He wondered if perhaps this would create an ideal opportunity to bring up the prospect of sharing the rest of their lives.

"Sure," Hermione smiled, but he noticed it didn't quite reach her eyes.

"What would you like"?

"Actually," she glanced out the high, stained-glass windows and noticed the sun sinking slowly in the horizon. "Can we skip pudding?"

Draco snapped his fingers to call over their waiter, and checked his pocket watch – a Malfoy heirloom given to him by his father when he came of age. "We have more than an hour before we need to be at the theatre, maybe we could go for a walk?"

"That sounds lovely."

Draco paid the cheque, and they left through the back exit, where wizards and witches could apparate and disapparate. "Mi'lady," with a flourish, he offered her his arm. She smiled her troubled smile again, and placed a manicured hand on his bicep. They disappeared instantly, reappearing in St. James's Park. They wandered slowly along the lake, Buckingham Palace looming ivory and majestic in the distance, and the blue lights of the London Eye already twinkling in the dusk.

After they had walked a short distance, Draco noticed that Hermione was trembling. "You're cold. Here." He shrugged out of his jacket and draped it over her shoulders. She pulled it tighter around herself, and Draco watched as a single tear escaped from the corner of her eye, and slipped down her cheek. "What's wrong, love?" At the same time, they reached to wipe it away, and their hands collided. Hermione laughed, and allowed him to rub the liquid away with his thumb.

Draco led her over to a bench, and watched her face intently, waiting for an answer. She sighed, and leaned her head against his shoulder. He put his arm around her, and murmured, "You can tell me."

"Do you know what today is?"

"May 2nd?"

"Yes," she whispered sadly. "Which makes it the fifth anniversary of the end of the Second Wizarding War – the battle at Hogwarts, the day Voldemort was defeated." Draco flinched slightly. Even after all this time, hearing the Dark Lord's name spoken still bothered him.

"Woah," he breathed. "I can't believe it's been five years." The day was as fresh in his memory as if it had been only yesterday, and yet, at the same time, it felt like centuries ago that he had been that young, scared boy, who hadn't been able to see a future for himself, let alone one of as much joy and healing as he had found with Hermione.

How would he ever approach the subject of his proposal now?

He felt ashamed that he had not remembered the date that had been so important in both their lives.

"We lost so many friends – Tonks, Remus, Fred, Colin."

"Crabbe," Draco added, thinking of how his lackey, one of his few friends at Hogwarts, had met a fiery end.

"Professor Snape."

"Snape," Draco repeated, thinking sorrowfully of his favourite professor, his Head of House, the man who had done everything in his power to protect Draco, though he had been a suspicious and ungrateful kid, who had believed Snape out to gain favor with the Dark Lord. Potter may have been responsible for revealing Snape for the hero he was, but he would never have the almost fatherly relationship Draco had enjoyed with the late headmaster.

They shared a moment of respectful and tragic silence.

Finally, glancing up at a weeping willow, through which the wind blew a mournful song making the leaves dance, Hermione pondered, "What do you think happens to us when we die?"

The question was unexpected, but Draco had contemplated the answer himself a million times. His last two years at Hogwarts had been completely consumed with fear over his imminent death. He would lie in the dark, imagining how it would be to draw his last breath, whether it would be quick or slow, how much pain he would suffer. He pictured his parents' faces, as they clung to his corpse, and his own blank eyes staring up at them. He wondered where he would go, whether the people who had gone before him would greet him, or if he would enter the void alone – and remain alone for eternity. Maybe he deserved everlasting solitude, after all the deaths he had caused. Perhaps he would have preferred death to completely end his being, to slip into nonexistence as easily as falling asleep. But he had met enough ghosts in his life to know he would continue in some form or other.

"I don't know," he answered honestly.

"I have been thinking about it a lot this week," Hermione confided. "About everyone we lost, about what it would be to reunite with them," she was thinking particularly of Fred and George Weasley. "I asked Harry about when he died, but he couldn't tell me much. He hadn't 'gone on,' so he hadn't seen that next stage. He had met Dumbledore in a kind of limbo. It's just so permanent, isn't it, death? In the muggle world, they use the word 'heaven' for their concept of an afterlife. The word means different things to different people, but generally it seems to be a place of supreme beauty and happiness. Devoid of pain and hate. Surrounded by the people you love. Paradise."

"Paradise..." Draco repeated the word.

"I hope it's like that," she admitted. "It's very frustrating, trying to research something no one has any first-hand knowledge of. I suppose I will have to wait until the time comes. I'm not sure how I feel about that." She shook her head and laughed. "Listen to me! I'm ruining our date with all this dismal talk."

"Hermione," Draco grabbed both of her hands in his, stroking her knuckles with his thumbs. He looked into her eyes, and she gasped, surprised at the intensity and love she discerned in their depths. "I don't know what happens when we die, but this idea of heaven...If I had to describe paradise, it would be these last few years spent with you. You have made me happier than I have ever thought possible. But you could make me even happier, if you would do me the honour of spending the rest of your life with me."

"Draco..."

"I promise to love you until the day I die – maybe even longer. I promise, with every breath I take, that I will take care of you, work to ensure your happiness. I want to spend every day with you, to grow old with you, and finally slip out of this life with you by my side. Hermione Granger, will you marry me?"

He paused and gazed at her anxiously. She was staring at him with wide, wet eyes. Finally, she broke into a wide grin that lit her entire face. "Yes," she released a sound between a laugh and a sob. "Yes, I will."

And there, in the fading sunlight of St James's Park, Hermione gave Draco a piece of heaven on earth.


	9. Theme 8: Innocence

**Theme Eight: Innocence**

 _November 1992._

People (Harry and Ron included) often told Hermione she spent far too much time in the library for a girl her age. They constantly insisted she needed to get outside more often, engage in the games being played in the Gryffindor common room, loosen up, forget about homework, and have some fun. All very foolish advice, she thought, considering Hogwarts was an institution for magical _education._

An education that determined not only her quality as a witch, but her place in a world she had only recently learned existed. She was very excited to have access to a new collection of books and knowledge – an excitement no one seemed to understand or share (except maybe the occasional Ravenclaw). But _she_ couldn't understand _them_ \- the naysayers. How could they not thirst to know everything about such a wondrous and adventurous world? How did they not crave every magical detail, every fact, every trick, every spell? For eleven years she had been completely ignorant that she was lacking serious and important information; and she intended to make up for this insufficiency.

Thus Hermione could often be found in the library, until late at night when Madam Pince would finally send out any straggling students. She would shoo them out, shut the library for the night, and urge them all to hurry back to their dormitories before curfew. Hermione would collect her enormous pile of books in her arms and return to her tower room, but she never felt quite at home there with the other girls as she did among the crowded shelves and musty pages.

It was this particular habit of Hermione's that afforded her a special opportunity.

One night, in late autumn, Hermione was returning from the library, where she had spent the evening continuing her research on Polyjuice Potion. She had a couple books tucked under her arm, and the corridor was deserted. Everything was quiet – not a Peeves or Mrs Norris in sight. She was enjoying the rare moment of solitude and quiet, when she heard a faint noise, barely heard over her light footsteps. It sounded like crying.

Hermione crept forward, muffling her already soft steps so as not to startle the sad person. She peered around the end of the hallway, and saw a small robed figure huddled in the window casement, arms wrapped around bent legs, bowed head pressed against the glass pane. The night was dark and overcast, not a single star to brighten the sky. She tentatively stepped forward.

"Why are you crying?"

The small head jerked up. In the dim candle light, Hermione recognized Draco Malfoy, his cheeks red and wet. He wiped angrily at his eyes and snapped, "I'm not crying." She wasn't sure what to do. This was Malfoy, after all, the bane of her existence at Hogwarts. He was rather mean to Ron and Harry - and to her. But there was something in his sad eyes that softened her heart, and she felt sorry for him. He was just a little boy, after all.

"Are you alright?" she asked gently, standing a foot in front of him.

"I'm fine, _Granger,_ " he spat. He was angry at his own weakness, and that the mudblood should be the one to discover him. What would his father say if he knew? Hermione puffed up, flames igniting in her eyes, to hear her name spoken with such contempt. Why should she even condescend herself to bother with such a prat? But she swallowed her anger, as a tear he didn't notice slipped from Draco's eye. He was glaring at her, but if she looked hard enough, she could see that he wasn't really mad at _her_. She decided to try again.

"You don't have to be snippy, I promise I won't tell anyone that I saw you cry-"

"I wasn't-"

"But I thought that if you needed someone to talk to, you could talk to me. I'm good at keeping secrets. And," she sighed, "I really do care if you're...not okay."

Draco clearly did not like the idea of allowing this muggle-born to see him vulnerable, and even less appealing was the thought of bearing his soul to her. Yet, he had no one else he could speak to, and he had the strangest feeling that maybe she would understand. He turned his head to look out the window at the dark grounds, and Hermione accepted this as an invitation to sit next to him on the ledge.

"Were you at the Quidditch match?" he huffed.

"Yes." Hermione wasn't normally a sports-person, but she found Quidditch fascinating, and she liked attending games to support Harry.

"Then you saw my spectacular failure. The snitch was _right_ there, and I missed it."

"Because you were being a cocky git," Hermione murmured, but Draco still heard her.

"Whatever," he made to stand, but she grabbed his hand.

"I'm sorry. Tell me."

"No, you don't get it..."

"I want to."

Draco sighed and resumed his seat. Hermione continued to hold his hand, but he didn't say anything about it. "Marcus really laid into me. In front of everyone too, including those Weasley twins." He wrinkled his nose. "Beat by Potter. Everyone already thinks I only got on the team because my father bought us brooms," he shot Hermione a look, and she suddenly felt rather guilty. "Now no one will ever think I belong on the team. But I could be a really good seeker, I know I could... ... I don't know what I'll do at Christmas, when I have to see my father...he was so angry, after all the money he put into the team. I screwed up. Bad. Maybe that's all I'm good for..."

Hermione watched another tear slip down his cheek. She was surprised that he had revealed so much to her, and she was ashamedly shocked that she had never considered that Malfoy could be so _human._ He's lonely, she realized. _He feels alone, like no one cares._ She knew how that felt.

"I don't think that," she whispered. "I think you're good at a lot of things. You shouldn't care what other people think. You just need to do your best. That's all you can do. Your father is ridiculous if he is anything but proud of you. No one deserves to be made to feel unimportant or worthless." She cocked her head and offered him a small smile. "You're a special and valuable person, Draco. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise. I think you could do anything you set your mind to."

"Thanks...Hermione."

Her smile widened. "That's the first time you've ever said my first name!"

"Yes, well..."

"You can be kind of likeable, when you want to be."

"So can you."

"Thank you."

"This doesn't mean that we will suddenly become friends," Draco informed her. Hermione couldn't suppress a big grin, but she didn't say anything, merely nodded. "And it doesn't mean that I like you or anything. But..." his mouth twisted, as though this part was difficult for him to admit, "you might not be all that bad. You're actually rather friendly and sympathetic. But don't expect me to be nice to you!" he added quickly, feeling that any kindness shown on his part would have been a great disappointment, even a sin, to his father. "I'll probably, more like definitely, still say some nasty things to you, but just know...I won't always mean all of them." He had to keep up appearances after all.

"I understand," Hermione whispered, and she did. She doubted she would ever tell Harry and Ron about this. She'd never hear the end of it, and they'd probably tell her she should have pressed Draco for information, found out if he was Slytherin's heir. She hoped desperately that they were wrong and he wasn't, that the worst thing in his life would always be losing Quidditch matches.

Hermione reached out instinctively to touch him, and blushed profusely when she realized what she was doing. He stood abruptly, and nodded curtly in her direction. Without another word, he turned on his heel and strode down the hall. His emerald robes billowed behind him, as he hurried off. He looked so small, his shoulders hunched, his arms swinging at his sides. _He's just a boy._

The sight made Hermione incredibly sad, but she wasn't sure why.


	10. Theme 9: Drive

**Theme Nine: Drive**

"Hermione, I don't know about this."

"You said you wanted to know more about muggles and how I was raised. I'd say this is the perfect place for you to start. Besides, a license could come in handy – makes it easier to blend in, especially if any future little Malfoys need to get to Kings Cross Station."

"I'm probably going to kill us."

Hermione laughed. "Don't worry. I'm here to teach you."

"Then I know we're definitely going to die."

"Hey!" Hermione removed a hand from the steering wheel and punched his arm. The car only barely swerved. "I'll have you know I am both an excellent driver and a superb teacher." He smiled nervously and glanced out the passenger window. She grabbed his hand and squeezed it. "It'll be alright, I promise."

Hermione pulled onto a long-forgotten road, surrounded on either side by rolling fields. It was hardly used anymore since a more direct motorway had been built. She parked on the side, smiled at Draco, and climbed out of the car. He sighed and opened his door. It seemed this was really going to happen. He got into the driver's seat, adjusted the rearview mirror, as Hermione instructed, and turned the keys in the ignition. She gave a little cough, and indicated her already fastened seat belt.

"Oh, right." He secured his, put his hands on the wheel where she had showed him, and took a deep breath. He put the gearshift into Drive, but the car didn't move.

"Take your foot off the brake."

"Right." He did this. He pressed his foot to the gas; the car lurched forward, then jerked as he slammed on the brake. This start-stop motion happened several times before Hermione finally noticed the problem.

"No, Draco, just use _one_ foot for _both_ pedals." He did this, and per her urging, gently pressed on the gas.

"That's it," she encouraged. They were crawling along at 15 mph. She reached up a hand and put it on his neck. The muscle under the skin felt stiff and strained. "Oh honey, you're so tense!" She had discerned his nervousness, but only now realized the height of his anxiety. Driving was almost second-nature to her; she hadn't thought that Draco would find it so nerve-wracking. "What's wrong?"

"Just a little stressed," he murmured from the corner of his mouth, his eyes glued straight ahead. Suddenly he pulled over to the side of the road, gravel spitting under the tires. "I can't do this."

Hermione turned as far as possible in her seat, her hand still at the nape of his slender neck. She gently brushed her fingers against his skin, massaging the tension from his flesh. "Tell me what's bothering you."

"It's just feels...like a lot of pressure. I never realized before, these muggle inventions, how much more _effort_ it takes when you can't use magic. How much more dangerous it is, how difficult. I didn't realizing driving would be so _complicated._ What if I can't do it?" Flying seemed easy in comparison. A broom had always felt like an extension of his own body, light and lithe. He felt awkward sitting in this tonne of metal. All his life he had been taught non-magical persons were inferior - what if he couldn't accomplish what almost all grown muggles had?

"You can do this. You just need to make up in your mind that you can, and you will. The only things in life worth doing are those that seem difficult." She smiled and continued to caress his neck. She could feel him starting to relax. "Much more satisfying, don't you think?" She wanted him to feel the thrill of driving for himself.

"Maybe."

"Try again. I'm right here with you." This thought heartened him. He put the car into Drive once again, and started forward. Hermione noticed that her touch seemed to calm him, so she kept her hand on his neck, as their speed continued to increase. He was hugging the centre line a little, but she was quick to correct him. "You're doing well!" she cheered.

Draco climbed to the speed limit, and soon they were whipping down the back road, the windows down and the air rushing at them. It was an exhilarating feeling – having all that power under his control. He loved it. Hermione was laughing. "I knew you'd get it!"

For hours they drove back and forth along old back roads, sometimes getting out to examine this river or that dale. She even showed him a few tricks, like using the emergency brake to circle 360 degrees, and let him get up to 85 mph. But as dusk began to settle over the fields, their fun came to an end. Though he was doing better than expected, he didn't actually have a license yet, so Hermione took over when they reached the main road. She didn't want to receive a ticket or scratch her parents' car. Their faces were flushed, and Draco was wearing a smile.

"That was great!"

"See, some muggle inventions can be fun."

"I never would have thought." Which was true. He had never thought about driving in his entire life. Hermione had introduced him to so many new things, things his father had always spoken of in disgust. He was beginning to understand just how much he had missed out on. How could Draco ever pay Hermione back for all these wonderful things she had shown him? Each new experience was a gift, sweeter than the last. He would never be able to put into words just how special and amazing that was.

He suddenly remembered something she had mentioned. "Did you mean what you said, about little Malfoys?"

Her face turned the slightest shade of pink. "Well, they _would_ need to arrive at the station inconspicuously, wouldn't they?"

"That's not what I meant."

"I know."

"Would you, I mean, do you think...Would you be the mother of my children?"

She knew her answer without even thinking about it. She had imagined their little blond haired, brown eyed babies a thousand times. "Someday," she smiled. After they had seen more of the world, after she had filled herself with more knowledge and experiences. She reached her hand over the gearshift, taking his in her own. She could feel his excitement, the quick pulse in his wrist. He pressed her knuckles to his lips. "But for right now, I don't see why we can't just keep taking the car out for test-drives."


	11. Theme 10: Breathe Again

_I wanted to try something a bit different for this chapter, but I hope you still enjoy. It's a bit more poetic, fragmented prose without a clear linear story. Instead of mentioning Hermione and Draco by name, I also referred to them as "he" and "she" to see what the effect would be. Let me know what you think! (Because Hermione travels via train and taxi, instead of just apparating, this could be considered a non-magical AU. But I'll leave that up to you. =P)_

* * *

 **Theme Ten: Breathe Again**

Her breath fogs up the glass. She traces hearts with her fingers, and when she wipes them away, she wishes she hadn't. The train rattles on, but seems to be going nowhere. Another destination, another cold winter day. Away when all she wants is to go back. The passing hills look barren. They were alive when she left. The sky is painted with grey clouds. She prays it won't snow. She can't take any more delays.

She's been gone for weeks on one of her work-related adventures. More speeches and seminars, a thousand faces she'll never remember, telling her that she's doing a great job. Her life consists of cold coffee in paper cups and empty hotel room sheets.

She forgets what it feels like in his arms, though she pictures him every waking second. She doesn't know what scares her more – that she forgets, or that she misses him that much. A hundred thousand handshakes and pats on the back, smiles and one-armed hugs from people she barely knows, but none of them are him, the one touch she wants. Surrounded by so many people, she thinks she'll suffocate. She wishes they would just give her some space, but she knows it's the distance that keeps her from catching her breath.

She has become familiar with the taste of stale air in smoky pubs, drinking flat ale and misery. Pays for a round for a room of strangers who don't care who she is, just because she can, and she wants to reward their ignorance. The man in the corner is caressing a guitar, strumming with his eyes closed, a sad song she half-recalls. She listens and buys him whiskey. His hair is the colour of honey, and she thanks him for this, and his melody, which reminds her of _him._ He's all alone in their flat, surrounded by books he'll never read and artifacts in glass boxes he never touches.

She can't sleep at night without him. So she lies in strange beds counting cracks in the ceiling, rips off all the blankets because they seem to smother her, holds a pillow to her abdomen and pretends it's him. Reads by pale lamplight until her vision blurs, and she finally collapses in exhaustion, and can't think anymore. She sees him in her dreams, which only makes the days that much harder. She never thought she could hate the sun.

The closer she gets to coming home, the longer the days become.

xxxxx

He's drinking red wine from a long stemmed glass, a green tie loose around his neck. Staring out the window at the twinkling lights of the city, the people passing below bundled in colourful scarves and mittens, laughing to ward off the bitter cold. He doesn't care about any of them; he's thinking only of her.

That apartment is too quiet. He fools himself into thinking every footstep down the hall is her. Each time it isn't they trample another piece of his heart. The nights are too long. There's too much space to fill, but there doesn't seem to be enough air. He opens all the windows, but it doesn't help. His mind seems determined to fill the emptiness. He hates being alone with his thoughts.

The alcohol helps to take away clarity, dulls the edges, so he doesn't prick himself. He can almost make-believe his daydreams are real. His vital organs feel heavy and flat, like he's carrying around a chest full of cement. He deliberates calling the paramedics and demanding CPR, anything to make him feel alive.

The waitress at the cafe down the street smiled at him and winked this morning, as she handed him a lukewarm latte. Her eyes were the colour of coffee without cream, but they didn't have the same warmth and life as _hers._ There was more vixen about the barrista than lioness. An absence that only made him miss her more.

He never knew you could drown in loneliness. He's drenched in it, and no matter how many walks he takes in the rain, he can't seem to wash it away. His veins squelch, but he doesn't know if they're full of water or wine; he's forgotten how to bleed. You need a heart beat for that, which requires oxygen. He just can't seem to find the desire to inhale.

He's been holding his breath for weeks.

xxxxx

The taxi cab pulls up in late November. He hears the car door slam, but he refuses to let himself believe. He's been disappointed before. It's beginning to snow. Great white flakes that adorn her hair and eyelashes. She can see his silhouette in the window, and it's like she's seeing him for the first time. She exhales silver puffs, like smoke, the colour of his eyes. She weeps grey.

Her chest is tight – water-logged with tears she collected with each passing mile. She opens the door and drops her bag. He's standing there, arms open wide. She throws herself into them, and her lungs awaken. Each precious respiration fills her with his scent.

"Welcome home, Hermione."

They remember how to breathe again.


	12. Theme 11: Memory

**Author's note:** **for this chapter, I thought I would experiment with format again. I wanted to pick a moment in the books/films that Hermione and Draco both participated in, and share it from both of their points of view - past tense, since they are recalling memories. The part in** _italics_ **is Hermione's, and the** normal text **is Draco's. The memory I picked was Slughorn's Christmas party, but I also considered the Hippogriff episode in _PoA._ Let me know what you think of the format! Shall I do more chapters in this style? (Pertaining to my last chapter, anyone who reviewed seemed to enjoy the fragmented, poetic-prose style, so I'm hoping to use it again.)**

* * *

 **Theme Eleven: Memory**

 _I wasn't really fond of the Slug Club, of which I found myself a member. Professor Slughorn was a decent professor: he was knowledgeable and good-humoured, he challenged us, and he was much more congenial than Professor Snape. However, I didn't enjoy the way he tended to blatantly privilege his favourite students, forming said exclusive club which barred a great deal of promising witches and wizards, and bestowing invitations to parties and dinners on those select few he considered worthy of his time. His obvious surprise that a witch of my calibre could have been born to muggles was both offensive and distasteful._

 _I supposed I stayed in the club, despite my misgivings, for the sakes of Ginny and Harry. The former clearly shared my sentiments, and Harry needed to retrieve valuable information from Slughorn – on Dumbledore's orders – and I thought perhaps my presence could be of some assistance. And, if I am perfectly honest, I have to admit that some of the connections I made in the Slug Club proved useful in my future Ministry career. Just as Slughorn anticipated, and the importance of which I possessed an inkling of even then._

 _Despite all of this, I was most excited for Slughorn's Christmas party. I knew it would be a grand affair, with food and drinking, small-talk and dancing. A smaller group of people, rendering the atmosphere more homey and intimate, than the massive celebrations in the Great Hall during which one could barely hear their own thoughts, let alone their neighbours._

 _I love Christmas, though I have rarely expressed myself in those words. The decorations, the tree, the traditional gift giving, the carols, the multicoloured lights on dark nights, the general air of love and goodwill. My parents held a party every year with some of their colleagues and family friends. Our house would be full of music, food, chatter, and laughter. My mother hung mistletoe in the most conspicuous places, and the adults did a secret gift exchange, during which my father dressed up as a slender and perfectly groomed gentleman of a Father Christmas. My mother would wear her best dress – a festive crimson or deep indigo – and carefully arrange her hair and apply make-up. I thought (and still do) she was the most beautiful woman in the world. I loved watching her do these preparations in front of her vanity mirror, her thin fingers gliding over the vast assortment of items. She would allow me to chose her jewellery, and whichever pieces I decided on she would gush her approval over and wear all evening, even if the earrings were too heavy or the necklace gold and the bracelet silver._

 _I cannot express how much I missed these parties when I spent the holidays at Hogwarts._

 _I hoped that Slughorn's party would afford me the same enjoyment._

You could say my childhood Christmases were charmed. As the only child of a prominent, wealthy wizard family, gifts and attention were always lavished upon me. Presents were piled in mountains under the Christmas tree, around which glowing candles floated and enchanted bells quietly tinkled carols. I received whatever I wanted, except the one thing I needed most – my father's pride in me. I went home every Christmas to the warm and loving arms of my mother, the delicious smells of baking cookies and roast lamb, large fires burning in the hearths that dispelled the cold and darkness. It was perhaps the one time of the year I felt I could relax and just be myself. The one time of year my family openly expressed our affection for each other.

The Christmas of my sixth year was the first time in my life I didn't want to go home. Home was no longer the safe haven of love and belonging. It had become the headquarters of the Death Eaters, and the Dark Lord traversed the hallowed corridors of my childhood far too often. He carried darkness and misery with him wherever he went, which no fires or twinkling lights could allay. I couldn't stand seeing my father doting on the Dark Lord's every whim, striving to return to his good graces. He should have known Voldemort had no grace.

 _I attended the Christmas party with McLaggen – which was a mistake. I had intended to invite my friend Ron, but he was being a prat, and I wanted to get back at him. A childish thing to do, but I was young, hormonal, and emotional, which made me fallible. I spilled many tears over him, and I gave him my heart, but how could I have known then that feelings change and you can find love in the most unexpected places. Very few people marry their teenage sweethearts, but that hadn't mattered to me then...but I digress._

 _I attended the party with Cormac. He turned out to be such a conceited bore (and a "boar" - the chauvinistic pig, couldn't keep his hands to himself), I spent a great deal of my time avoiding him. Except for my poor choice of date, the party was all that I had desired. The room was beautifully decorated in red and gold, and there was an abundance of food and drink. The atmosphere was warm and friendly; everyone was dressed up in their fanciest robes, chatting excitedly and making jokes. The butterbeer and music seemed to carry away all my troubles. Even Harry seemed to be having a good time. He had invited Luna, whom I adore, and she was a pleasure to witness. She seemed to carry sunlight inside of her and radiate it wherever she went._

 _I found a spare moment to talk to Harry, but this was quickly interrupted by Cormac, who was hunting for me. I ducked away, and kept myself hidden from him the rest of the evening. I found solace near one of the large windows looking out onto the grounds. It was covered by a luminous golden curtain, and I found the ledge just large enough to seat me. I perched there, and watched as the snow fell gently outside, covering the world in a soft white blanket._

It was cold and snowy. The December days were short, the nights long. As much as I was learning to hate the dark, I needed its cover to continue my work on the Vanishing Cabinet. Shut away in the Room of Requirement, I was able to make some progress by transporting a green apple off the grounds. It was a far cry from carrying several grown humans, but it was something. A tremor went through my body as I examined the bite in the lustrous peel. I knew I would succeed in fixing the cabinet, and I was both relieved and terrified. My first attempt on Dumbledore's life had failed, but I would be able to get the Death Eaters into Hogwarts. Surely that would please the Dark Lord, prove to him that I was useful. I knew my current usefulness was the only thing keeping me alive.

I was exhausted. The corridor was engulfed in darkness. The silence was broken by a constant buzz of chatter and laughter coming from one of the rooms. I remembered Blaise telling me about Slughorn's Christmas party. A jolt of envy and bitterness coursed through me, and I scowled. A year earlier that could have been me. The Draco of a year earlier would have schemed and plotted for an invitation, would have boasted about it and exhibited his new robes. My life had once been dominated by such trivial matters. I yearned for that simpler, easier time too much to feel ashamed at its pettiness. I was only a boy after all.

And the boy in me couldn't help but draw nearer to the party as I headed back to the Slytherin common room. Longing made me careless. I didn't hear Filch approach. He grabbed my ear, the filthy Squib, as though I was nothing more than a child, and demanded to know what I was doing "lurking" about. The glee on his face was tangible. I told him the first lie that came to my mind: I had been invited to the party, but I was late.

"We'll see about that," he said, and hauled me towards the party.

 _There was a commotion. I peered out the semi-transparent curtain from my place in the shadows, and watched as Filch dragged Malfoy into the room. He was positively beside himself in ecstasy, and knowing very well that Slughorn had not issued an invitation to Draco, said that Malfoy had claimed he was on his way to the party._

 _"All right, I wasn't invited!" Draco snapped, freeing himself from Filch's grasp. "I was trying to gate crash, happy?" Filch, who loved punishing students as much I love books, invoked Dumbledore to ensure everyone was aware of Draco's guilt. It made my stomach churn to see Draco looking so sullen, and somehow small, next to Filch as the man revelled in what he no doubt hoped would be a most disagreeable sentence. Remembering how eagerly he had extolled Umbridge for reinstating physical punishments of students, I wanted to rush forward and put myself between him and Draco._

 _Something in Malfoy's grey eyes captivated me, and drew me from my hiding place. I noticed again how ill he looked. His skin had a slightly grey tinge to it – not the pleasant, smoky silver of his eyes, but a dull ash colour that reminded me of the residue of burnt cigarettes. Toxins. The dark circles under his eyes looked like bruising._

 _All I could do was stare. It was foolish, but I couldn't stop myself. I took comfort in the fact that everyone else was staring at him too, to see what Professor Slughorn would decide. Slughorn, full of the spirit of Christmas, dismissed the idea of punishment and invited Draco to stay. If he had indeed been "gate crashing," then the proposal he stay would have made his mission not only successful but beyond his expectations. In the very least, one would have expected Draco to welcome the invitation. So why did he look so unhappy?_

 _It wasn't his usual sour expression – the one that usually accompanied a complaint or the words "my father will hear about this." There was something behind the down-turned mouth, something hidden. How I yearned to be able to unlock his secret._

Slughorn invited me to stay. I pulled my face into a jovial mask and thanked him for his generosity, though I found it hard to be grateful for being humiliated in front of all his guests. If they knew what I was really doing, they would recoil in fear and loathing. Let's see them enjoy their party then. Maybe then they would catch a glimpse of the horrors I faced each night, staring at the ceiling until the early hours of dawn, unable to sleep for fear.

Just to the side of Slughorn's right shoulder, I recognized Granger. She was absolutely beautiful. Her dress perfectly hugged every curve; her hair hung softly about her face; her eyes looked large and luminous, under thick black lashes, her lips cherry red and cheeks rosy. I remembered how lovely she had appeared at the Yule Ball, but it was amazing how much an additional two years had done for her. The girl had become woman.

Death had made this boy a man.

My heart gave a sharp thump and skipped a beat. I suddenly felt ashamed, watching her stand there. Damn Filch for dragging me in here, and turning me into a spectacle. Granger's pretty brown eyes were searching my face. I tried to maintain my false smile, and fed Slughorn a flattering line about how highly my grandfather spoke of him (though I can't claim Grandfather Malfoy was a particularly good judge of character, or a very friendly person for that matter).

I wished she'd stop looking at me like that, like she was trying to reach into my soul. I couldn't afford to let anyone in, especially not her. I knew that if anyone would be able to pry out the truth, it would be she.

God, she was beautiful.

And I was going to destroy everything she held dear. But I had no other option. I couldn't sacrifice my family, my mother – the one woman I knew loved me – for a chance at a woman whose love I (though only later did I realize it) craved, but could never be worthy of.

I hated everything Slughorn's party stood for – that which I once had, who I once was, but was now barred from. The joy and fun I felt I would never be able to feel again. I allowed myself one sweet moment imagining I could stay for the party. I imagined how it would feel to forget about everything, to laugh along with the other guests and stuff my face. To ask Hermione to dance, press her close to me, and sweep across the floor with her in my arms, her skin warm against mine. Lead her under the mistletoe, lean in close, and...

"I'd like a word with you, Draco," Professor Snape said suddenly, slithering in out of nowhere. I was simultaneously relieved and disappointed, but also unbelievably resentful. Who was he to lord authority over me as Head of Slytherin House when he was a Death Eater just as much as I was, and yet occupying a safe and cushy position under Dumbledore? I could boast of no such safety. I had to prove myself to the Dark Lord, or he was going to kill me. I glanced briefly at Hermione one final time, knowing in the coming months I might never have the chance to see her that closely, and followed Snape out.

 _He left. Draco walked out with Professor Snape, and my heart seemed to sink into my stomach. It took me a moment to realize that what I was experiencing was acute disappointment. I couldn't imagine what could have caused me to feel that way, but feel it I did._

 _It wasn't until later, during a peaceful, snowy evening around Christmas, as I gazed out the window, that I suddenly realized why I had really gone to Slughorn's party. I had spent hours getting ready, making myself look nice, doing my hair and make-up, painting my nails, and choosing shoes to match my dress. Every girl, I believe, deserves to pamper herself and feel beautiful. I didn't do any of it for McLaggen. I knew everyone would be dressed up, but I couldn't help hearing my aunt Lydia's voice in my head: "I believe a woman should always be looking her best, because she never knows when she is going to meet her true love." I always thought her advice ridiculous, but I admired how fashionable and pretty she was, and I suppose I internalized those words._

 _Slughorn's Christmas party was my muggle secondary school prom experience. I didn't go with the boy I really wanted to go with, I spent most of the night hiding, and the entire time I was waiting and waiting for someone to show up unexpectedly and make the whole night worthwhile. I was secretly longing that "Prince Charming" would arrive and sweep me off my feet, like in romantic movies and fairy tales._

 _I know that doesn't sound like me, but deep down I imagine every girl – every wall flower – has the same longing, or teenagers wouldn't attend events at all. And, you see, my father and mother met at a Christmas party. They had both just started their dentistry careers. A colleague of my father's hosted the party, to which my father and my mother's friend Rachel – Dad's colleague's secretary – was also invited. She dragged my mother along, promising she would have fun, that it would be a night to remember._

 _Dad saw Mum from across the room. She was wearing a white dress. He thought she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, and he said he knew that very instant he would marry her someday._

 _Sounds like something Hollywood wrote, but that's the way it happened. I must have asked to hear that story a hundred times, begged to hear them recount how they had spent the rest of the party laughing, how easily they talked – as though they had known each other for ages, how they had decided to go outside and enjoy the falling snow, how they kissed in the glow of Christmas lights, and knew they would love each other forever._

 _I could picture every detail as though I had been present that night. I carried that story around in my heart as though it were my own memory. Could I help it if I grew up believing in love at first sight, if I believed that you could know love in a single moment? Could I help it if I longed for opportunities for my true love to simply walk into my life and see me across a crowded room?_

 _I didn't know what I was expecting that night, or what I wanted. I thought I wanted Ron._

 _But the second Draco walked through that door, everything I thought changed. It that moment I knew._

I carried that image of Hermione in my mind like a snapshot. Clear and beautiful, the other people nothing more than blurry backdrops. When things got rough, I pulled out that memory of her and examined it. That beauty could still exist, could exist inside of a human, in the midst of so much evil, gave me hope. Love in unexpected places.

 _He was the only one I would ever want._

I guess I owe Slughorn a debt of gratitude after all.


	13. Theme 12: Insanity

_I'm sorry for the long wait on this one. Dealing with some things that are stifling my creativity, and I really struggled with this theme. I shall try not to take so long to update again._

 _ **Chapter synopsis**_ _: After being tortured by the Dark Lord in_ _Deathly Hallows_ _, Draco experiences delirium as his body heals. Based on the following line in Chapter 24_ _DH_ _that I was surprised Rowling didn't expand on, and that I was depressed to see Harry brushed aside so easily: "he [Harry] gazed down at the tiny body, and his scar prickled and burned, and in one part of his mind, viewed as if from the wrong end of a long telescope, he saw Voldemort punishing those they had left behind at Malfoy Manor. His rage was dreadful and yet Harry's grief for Dobby seemed to diminish it, so that it became a distant storm that reached Harry from across a vast, silent ocean."_

* * *

 **Theme Twelve: Insanity**

"Draco, you're going to be alright. You'll be alright," a woman's voice seemed to come from a great distance, but he could hear the barely restrained sobs, could faintly feel her cool touch on his aching body. He could barely comprehend her words, as though she spoke in a foreign language he had once studied but had now forgotten. He could not even recall who he was. He was aware only of excruciating physical pain. "Just hold on. Lucius, we need to get him to St. Mungo's."

"But Narcissa, the Dark Lord –"

" _Now._ "

"Cissy," Bellatrix clucked reproachfully, "you're being dramatic. Your first priority should be the will of the Dark Lord. We failed him, and hence deserved punishment. Draco will –"

"You will _not_ presume to tell me what should be done for _my_ son," Narcissa snapped. Her eyes dared her sister to comment further. Her voice was soft and soothing once more as she turned to her child, "We are going to get you help, Draco. Just hold on." But he neither heard nor felt anything further.

 _Pain. Pain was his only reality. Consumed his entire being. Flames he could not extinguish. Burning. Agony. Never-ending. He must be in hell. Or else he was headed there. He wished he would just die already. What had he done to deserve this? Possibly every decision he had ever made. But was there no redemption? Or at least a brief reprieve? A drop of cool water on his parched tongue? The silver tongue of the snake that had charmed and deceived as easily as he drew breath. But breathing was difficult now. His lungs had betrayed him._

 _He was better off dead._

 _Then the dark. Impenetrable. But not empty. Full of things he wished not to see. He could hear them moving, slithering out from his mind, snakes along the floor. His personal demons. You can't tame the serpent. Curling over him, crushing his insides, he was going to suffocate. Sharp fangs, his exposed neck. Venom. It was destroying him. Poisoning his soul. He was a fool if he thought he could find refuge in the light._

 _Heaven would never accept him._

 _The slitted nostrils of the Dark Lord, the glean in his blood red eyes. As he pointed his wand and shouted over and over again, as each new incantation only intensified the curse, fuelled his rage. Voldemort enjoyed his own anger, loved inflicting punishment, secretly hoped his Death Eaters would fail him, just so he could see them squirm. He desired nothing more than to bend others to his will._

 _Bellatrix had been first, since it was she who had called the Dark Lord. His discipline was swift and severe, and even amidst her screams, Draco could see her laughing. His aunt the masochist. She craved any attention, any touch from Voldemort. If she could not gain his pleasure, she would gratify herself in his violence. It repulsed him, and yet he knew that if not for the pain, he would feel nothing at all._

 _He heard his mother's voice, soothing, "You're going to be alright, Draco." He saw her face, as though through a heavy mist. A lie. He would never be alright. He was her punishment, and his father's. He never should have been born. His own existence was his weakness. The Dark Lord knew that nothing would hurt the Malfoys more than the suffering of their son. Draco could feel her tears dripping onto his face. His lips parted, to reassure her, promise her that none of this was her fault. But then she seemed to implode. Her pretty face ruptured as the great body of Nagini ripped through his mother's form. The snake had Voldemort's eyes, but his aunt's laugh. The mark on his arm burned. "You belong to me." For generations, they had been a family of snakes. How could he have associated himself with such a creature? The fire spread. Burning away pieces of him. Soon he would be nothing but a pile of ash. There would be nothing left of the boy he had been._

 _He was in Malfoy Manor. The walls seemed darker than ever before, looming over him. He walked down the corridor, but it seemed to stretch endlessly before him. His mother called to him, cried his name over and over again, but he could not reach her. His feet were made of lead, and each step was a trial. But h_ _e made it to the drawing room. In the center of the room, under the broken chandelier, he saw the corpses of Potter and Weasley. To the left was his mother, laying cold in a pool of deep blood. Had he ever seen so much? His father's wide-eyed carcass slumped near hers, and though his lips moved not, his voice accused, "Why did you not identify the enemies of the Dark Lord? You are no son of mine."_

 _Nagini appeared, and spoke to him in his mother's voice. "You have failed us, Draco." She repeated her chant, merciless. Other voices joined her, and the corpses rose against him, Inferi in the Dark Lord's service. They laid violent hands on him, but their words were worse than their fists. They accused and bullied him, hurled insults at him that he resented, but feared were true: worthless, useless, lazy, failure, coward. He covered his ears with his hands, but he could not keep out their words._

 _Then Bellatrix appeared, with the smile of the Cheshire Cat. Her limbs seemed to fade in and out, but always the smile reminded, monstrously bright and gleaming. Grinning. She mocked his suffering. She pointed her wand. He lifted his own in defence. She chuckled – high pitched and patronizing. She was not pointing at him, but rather at something behind him._

 _Granger._

 _Bruised and broken on the floor, her hair spilled around her, the cuts on her arm – MUDBLOOD – red and raw, dripping blood like tears. She was stained with it. He screamed her name, and fell to his knees beside her. "Look what you've done," Bellatrix whispered in his ear. "It's your fault Dumbledore is dead, and now you've killed the girl."_

 _"No."_

 _"You destroy everything you touch. Never even told her how you felt about her. That blood-traitor Weasley was always in the way. Now she'll never know. You'll never find anyone to love you. Who could love someone like you?"_

 _"Stop it."_

 _"'Filthy little mudblood,'" she mimicked his voice, dancing around in a circle. "'Filthy little mudblood. Filthly little mudblood.'"_

 _"Stop. Please."_

 _"Told Crabbe and Goyle you hoped the basilisk would kill Granger first."_

 _"I-I didn't mean it..."_

 _Bellatrix laughed again, maniacal and high. She disappeared, until only her teeth remained, Voldemort standing in her place. His devilish eyes seized Draco, and he swished his wand lazily. Swords seemed to slice him. He thought it was the same curse Potter had used on him a year ago, but when the pain subsided, he saw that letters had been carved into his white skin, crimson and deep – MUDBLOOD LOVER._

 _He could not deny the truth._

 _More things happened that he could not understand, in a sequence that was illogical and impossible, though he was unable to comprehend this. It seemed that each moment brought with it new wounds and agony, new fears and regrets. He wanted to curl up and die, but they would not let him. They kept hunting him, toying with him. Horror upon horror._

 _He saw the manor burned to the ground, his mother still inside; his father, tall and angry, loomed a hundred feet over him and tore him apart – he was a disgrace to the Malfoy name, and not fit to be recognized as Lucius' son; Voldemort tortured him; Nagini stabbed her fangs into him, writhing on the floor; he was given to Fenrir, whose teeth and claws dug into his body, marring and transforming him into that which he had most feared since childhood. He watched Bellatrix kill Granger a million ways, witnessed as she slashed more words into the girl's soft flesh – every nasty word he had ever said._

 _Men in blood-stained white jackets tried to restrain him. They wore the masks of Death Eaters, and sneered at him, injected his veins with a sludge that would turn him into one of them. He grabbed at the one nearest him, and pried away the mask. But behind the grotesque disguise there was nothing. They had no faces. They held a mirror before his eyes, and he realized that he no longer had a face. He was no one. They had stolen his identity._

"Please, you have to give him something!"

"There's a new potion I've been working on. We'll give it a try."

 _A light broke through his unending darkness. Pierced through his inescapable hell, into the pit where he now cowered, alone. The loneliness, the isolation, was the worse punishment yet. Was there no one who cared to rescue him? He shuddered away from the light. It was alien and strange. All he knew was darkness and cold. The light would expose what he had become, and he didn't want to see._

 _From within the light, a figure appeared, glorious. He bowed his face to the ground, trembling at his own inadequacy before this celestial being. It was a woman, in splendid robes of the purest white, her long hair loose and flowing. She reached out her hand. "Draco."_

 _"Hermione?" Did he dare believe it? He longed to reach out to her, but he feared this was another of Voldemort's deceptions._

 _A warm hand pressed to his cheek. "Do not fear, Draco. There is light beyond the darkness, life beyond death, happiness beyond the pain. Hold on. You have the cunning of the snake, but the heart of a lion."_

 _"I have nothing. I am nothing."_

 _"Did you know," she started, and her angelic voice adopted an intellectual tone, "that snakes can represent transformation and rebirth? They shed their skins, and what was before is not what is after. You, Draco Mafloy of Slytherin, already possess what is needed for healing, for the renewal of life."_

 _"I'm afraid."_

 _Hermione grabbed his hand, and helped him to stand. "True bravery is not the absence of fear, but the willingness to act in spite of it. I believe in you." She smiled her toothy grin, and it was nothing like Bellatrix. It was warm and inviting, chasing away the darkness and filling him with hope and joy. If she could still smile despite everything, then he had faith the dark days would end, and light would shine on him again._

 _"I won't give up."_

 _She kissed him, and all the horror he had known seemed to fade into oblivion._

Draco opened his eyes. He winced at the bright light, which filled the unfamiliar room, and blinked quickly to help his eyes adjust. He was laying in a strange bed, and he could not remember having fallen asleep. He perceived his mother, her face drawn and tired, staring out the window. He had no idea where he was, but if she was there, he knew he was safe. Yet why did she look so sad? With a surprising amount of effort, he lifted his hand and covered hers.

"Draco! You're awake!" She threw her arms around him. "Oh, my son! My son!"

"Mother," he coughed. "I can't breathe." Narcissa restrained herself, but she held tightly to his hand, and gently brushed the hair from his high forehead. "Where am I?"

"You're at St. Mungo's," and she proceeded to explain how Voldemort had tortured him, as punishment for Potter's escape, how the intensity and repetition of his curses had affected both Draco's body and mind. They had feared he might not recover. Two weeks had already passed. "But I knew you would. You are so strong."

"I don't remember," he admitted. He felt that he should be able to recall something as significant as being tortured.

"Healer McNutt – she has been taking care of you – expected as much. You've been through a terrible ordeal. She said you may remember in time."

"Where is Father?"

"He has gone away for a moment," she replied cryptically and – he noted even in his present condition – resentfully. "But he shall return shortly. Before he does," she squeezed his hand, "I must speak to you about something."

Draco nodded his assent, but his mouth suddenly felt dry. What else had gone wrong?

"When you were," she could not find an adequate term, "indisposed, you sometimes muttered or shouted. Whatever you saw was clearly frightening." Narcissa shuddered, just the remembrance of Draco's eyes, seeing something she could not, distressed her. "Far more often than anything else, you called the name of the muggle-born girl." She stared at him expectantly.

"Granger?"

"Yes."

He fumbled for words. "That hardly sounds like me. It must have been a component of the delusion. I can't remember anything, nor can I imagine what I should call out her name," he lied.

"Yes, I supposed as much," his mother answered, but her posture had stiffened, as it often did when she was not being entirely truthful with him, or when she was concealing something. He wondered what she was thinking, but he knew better than to try and discover her thoughts. A change of subject, he decided, was his best defence.

"Mother, I'm tired."

"You sleep. I shall stay here with you." She kissed his forehead. "Sweet dreams, my prince."

He dared not tell her that he knew why he had called Granger's name, or that he knew Hermione was waiting for him in his dreams.

* * *

 _ **Quick afternote:** I know it's not my best chapter, but I hope you still enjoyed. I'll try to post again soon._  
 _Also, my favourite head-canon is that Draco became a healer. I think after everything it would have been the perfect career for him. He would have wanted to help people, and I really like the image of the snake as a symbol of healing and rebirth._


	14. Theme 13: Misfortune

_Warning: sadness ahead, including a topic that may be sensitive to some readers (but which I hope I handled compassionately and genuinely)._

* * *

 **Theme Thirteen: Misfortune**

A sharp pain shot through Hermione's lower abdomen. She groaned and ran a hand over her round stomach. Maybe she should try using the bathroom. When she was a child that was what her mother had always suggested she try first when she had stomach cramps. But even as she went to do so, she knew this pain was different.

 _It's alright. It's not what you think. It's just all that Mexican food you ate earlier. You shouldn't have had so much._ She tried to reason with herself, tried not to jump to her worst conclusions, but panic was building with each passing second.

The corridors in the manor were long and winding, and – not for the first time since her marriage three years previously – she cursed the house's layout. Why did wizards have to construct such elaborate homes? She finally made it to the bathroom, but more pain shot through her body, worse than before. She felt as though someone was stabbing her, over and over again. She staggered and fell to her knees, the noise of bone hitting tile was nauseating.

She was wet. Hermione probed the crotch of her jeans with her fingers. She released a straggled sob when she realized they were soaked in blood. The crimson liquid was flowing faster from within her, despite her attempts to quell the flow. "No, no, no," she repeated insanely, failing to keep the blood inside her where it belonged.

Excruciating pain shot through her gut, unbearable. "Narcissa!" she screamed at the top of her lungs. "Narcissa!" Hermione clutched her belly. Tears and snot were raining down her face. She could feel clumps in her underwear that she knew shouldn't be there. "Narcissa!"

Her mother-in-law appeared in the doorway. She gasped and dropped beside Hermione. One arm around the girl's shoulders, Narcissa repressed her own fear and asked, "do you think you can apparate?"

"No." The pain was too much. And she was losing so much blood.

"We'll do side-along. We need to get you to St. Mungo's."

"But Draco –"

"I'll send for him and Lucius once we're there. We need to go _now,_ Hermione." Logically, she knew she needed a hospital, but she didn't want to go. The healers would tell her what she already knew, but their words would somehow make it true, make it final. But she couldn't say that to Narcissa, whose mask of calm was already starting to crack.

"Alright."

Narcissa wrapped her arm more tightly around Hermione's quivering body, and they disappeared with a loud _crack_. The lobby of St Mungo's was full of people rushing about with purpose. Despite the usual influx of arrivals, all eyes turned to stare at the beautiful blond woman clutching an equally beautiful brunette who was covered in blood. Several witches and wizards in white rushed forward. Hermione collapsed in their arms.

When Hermione awoke, she was acutely aware of an absence within herself. Her eyes were already filled with tears as she turned her head towards the handsome blond man sitting beside her, clutching her hand, his own grey eyes conspicuously puffy and misty. "Draco?"

Tears slipped down his cheeks as he met her gaze. He attempted to speak, but was choked by a sob that threatened to escape. He shook his head. That confirmed it. Hermione curled into the fetal position and began to weep uncontrollably. Though her body no longer ached, the pain that rent through her heart plunged her into worse agony then she had ever known.

Draco bent low over her, burying himself in her warm body. He wrapped his arms around her, and she cradled his head against her heaving chest. In all the time she had known him, she had never seen Draco cry this openly or this heartily. They cried together for a long time, and when they had no more tears, they sat in silence, gripping each other's hands, as though terrified to let go. Words could not express the grief they were experiencing.

Hermione had not known it was possible to love so deeply someone she had never met.

20 weeks. She was twenty weeks along, already in her fifth month, her second trimester. More than halfway there. They had already started to purchase items for the nursery. They had told friends and family of their expected bliss weeks ago. They had already debated names and settled on their favourites. Just last week she had felt the baby kick. She had laughed and laughed, and called Draco to come feel. She had pressed his hand to the spot, and loved the wild look of surprise and pleasure on his face. He had pressed his lips to his belly often after that, and spoken beautiful words to their little child. Those little movements had made it all seem real. It was the strangest and most wonderful sensation she had ever had, knowing that within her was a little life growing. A piece of herself and a piece of Draco, the man she loved more than anyone on earth, coming together to form this beautiful new soul, this new chapter of their lives, the proof of their love.

Gone. How could the baby be gone? She didn't know women could miscarry this far along. She had never even considered the possibility. It's not something a woman wants to discuss, or even think about, especially when she's pregnant. Hermione's magical abilities, her skilled hand at making potions, had given her a false sense of security. Like she was invincible.

Her little baby had died.

Willing herself to calm down, Hermione began to take in her surroundings. The fluorescent lighting, scratchy white sheets, wooden cupboards, and large square windows were oddly familiar, but did not – she remembered from previous visits – belong to St Mungo's. "Where am I?" she asked hoarsely.

"A muggle hospital. Lad's Hospital or Gay's or something of that nature."

"Guy's Hospital?"

"Yes." Hermione knew exactly which hospital he spoke of. Before her father had opened his own practice, he had worked in the dental clinic in Tower Wing. She leaned back against her pillow and sighed.

"Why am I here?"

"The healers transferred you here. They said your malady was not magical, and no magic could restore what had been lost," he couldn't bring himself to say 'the baby,' "so they sent you here. Mother and Father were incensed. They're determined to take up the issue with the board." His voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper, "The woman who has been taking care of you is actually a witch, but she poses as a muggle healer – what are they called again?"

"Doctors."

"Right. She's working as a doctor. She uses muggle medicine, but admitted that in certain circumstances she has also used magic to help her patients." He clearly thought the witch's choice of profession odd, but because she was the woman who had committed herself to Hermione's care he held her in high esteem.

The young couple sat in silence again. They had transcended the realm of awkward silences long ago, but this silence was far from comfortable. It was filled with the feelings they could not express, hollow phrases they did not want to say, the conversations they would have to have eventually but were too painful to have now. So they waited, and continued to hold one another. Draco asked her if she needed water or if she was hungry, if she was comfortable and warm. She denied all assistance and substance, but she gave his hand a reassuring squeeze. The love which motivated his questions was not lost on her.

Finally the door opened. A pretty middle-aged doctor in a long white coat, very similar to the healers, entered. She had long dark hair, peppered with white strands, piled high on her head in a lovely style. She wore an absurdly large and bright pink bow, which immediately reminded Hermione of Umbridge's awful taste in accessories. However, the woman pulled it off attractively, and her genuine and heartfelt smile assured her that the woman's choice in embellishments was the extent of any likeness with the wretched Dolores.

"Hello, Hermione. I'm Doctor Archer. Alright, Draco?" Draco nodded in her direction. Archer checked Hermione's vitals and flipped through a chart on a clipboard. "How are you feeling?"

Hermione shrugged. "As well as I can...considering the circumstances." How could she begin to explain that every beat of her heart felt heavy and painful? How could she describe how, despite the wholeness and healthiness of her body, she felt as though someone had severed part of her person, cleaved her soul in pieces, stolen a significant piece of her, filled with her rocks, and then sewed her back up?

Archer nodded. "Mrs. Malfoy said you had experienced significant vaginal bleeding, blood clots, and intense pain. You also discharged grayish fetal tissue." Draco's face blanched, but Hermione simply nodded. She hadn't _examined_ what had happened, but she had felt it and known. Archer's face softened, and her small hazel eyes were sympathetic and kind. "Miscarriages this late in a pregnancy are exceedingly rare. About one in every hundred. Unfortunately, your baby had Edwards Syndrome, meaning there was an extra eighteenth chromosome. The majority of fetuses with this syndrome die before birth. Had the baby carried to term, there would have been major health issues, such as heart abnormalities, kidney and intestine malformations, or other difficulties in breathing, feeding, and development. In eighty percent of cases, the fetus is female." Archer's face twisted in sorrow. "You were having a girl. I'm so sorry."

Hermione nodded. She had had a feeling that she was carrying a girl. She wasn't sure how she knew, she just did. Before if a pregnant woman had told her they could simply _feel_ such a thing, Hermione would have scoffed and referred to their gender premonitions as silly wishful thinking. But now she knew that it was a mother's special intuition.

Mother's intuition. ...She might never be a mother now.

Her whole life, Hermione had craved knowledge, had been insatiably curious to investigate causes and effects, to understand how this or that functioned, but now she found that she would rather not have known. Ignorance, she thought, really could be bliss.

A daughter. She was going to have a daughter. A rambunctious girl with big ambitions and a bigger love for books; she'd be riding a broom at age three and be incredibly spoiled by her grandparents on both sides. A little girl with blond ringlets, brown eyes, and a too-wide smile. She could picture her clearly.

Hermione broke down. Draco wrapped his arms around her, and Dr. Archer quietly excused herself and closed the door. "Hush, love. It'll be alright," he whispered, kissing her lips, her eyes, her forehead, the top of her head.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry," Hermione repeated feverishly over and over. "My fault," she gulped. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault, Hermione. Don't say that."

But she couldn't stop feeling like it was, like somehow her body wasn't the safe place it should be. Maybe she would never be able to carry a baby for them. Maybe she'd never be able to have the children of the man she loved. Maybe she would be the reason Draco never become a father. She'd be the death of the Malfoy line. She sobbed harder.

"Darling," he soothed. "Listen. Listen." She forced herself to stop talking, but she continued to cry. "This isn't your fault. That baby," he hiccoughed, " _our_ baby, she was loved from the second her existence was known. And I know that she would have felt just how loved she was, just how much her mother wanted her, just how safe and comforting a place her mum's belly was." He stroked Hermione's cheek. "She would have been beautiful, intelligent, compassionate, strong, fearless, and stubborn to a fault, just like her mum. We'll keep trying, Hermione. I want to make as many little Hermione Malfoys as we can. The world would be a better place if there were more girls like you."

"What if we can't? What if we're just not able to?"

"Hermione Granger-Malfoy, I never thought I would ever hear you giving up, especially on something this important."

"I'm not giving up," she snapped, and he smirked to see her usual fierceness emerging. "I'm just trying to be realistic."

"Realistically, you always find a solution. We have to stay optimistic." Draco brought her face close to his, and he rested his forehead against hers. "I love you more than anything in this world. I will do whatever it takes to make you happy. I will make sure you become a mother, even if we need to shag four times a day in order to do so." She giggled and whispered a snide comment about his lecherous nature. "If, for whatever reason, we can't have a baby, I will never love you any less than I do right at this moment. But I promise that I will cherish your existence every second, I will strive to give you strength to heal, and I will give everything I have to make sure that you never feel a day of loneliness, of emptiness, of unfulfilled love. Your arms will never be empty. I promise to fill our house always with love and laughter."

"You're childish enough for both of us."

"Shush, don't ruin the moment, silly girl."

She pulled back her head so she could look into his face.

She wanted a baby more than she had ever wanted anything in her life, but she knew she didn't need one to prove the bond between her and her husband. "I love you, Draco Malfoy."

"I love you more, Mrs. Malfoy."


End file.
